Will's Story
by CSI Clue
Summary: After a murder at the Grande, Constable Clark and Mr. Holmes help to rescue a damsel, and Clarke gets more personallly involved.
1. Chapter 1

He was Will long before he was a William Clark, constable, and to his friends he was still Will when off-duty, which wasn't much these days. He roomed at a respectable house run by a retired army sergeant and his wife, and he sent home part of his pay every month to his old dad who was out in Weymouth.

Will didn't mind the country—it had been a good part of his past—but the city was his life now. London he loved with all its history and beauty and bustle. It was a place and a job that kept him endlessly, happily busy through every day and quite a few of the nights.

He hadn't been born here though, and when vexed or angry the rolling tones of the west counties would show up in his speech at times. That was all right though—most of the force seemed to have come from somewhere else as well. Even the consulting detective had traces of Sussex in his words at times, Will knew.

Nevertheless, when the selfsame Mr. Holmes beckoned him on the directive to "Talk to the girl and get her story," it took Will a moment to focus.

Part of it was that the girl was so damned pretty. Will knew that as a policeman he was supposed to rise above noticing that sort of thing, and that first and foremost came the case. Still, it was hard to miss the girl's big blue eyes, clear and bright like a summer sky. She had pale face dappled with thousands of light golden freckles, and straight black hair under her chambermaid's cap.

"Begging pardon, Mr. Holmes, but . . ." Will began uncertainly. "Shouldn't she—"

The girl murmured then, and the husky tone of her voice made him turn to look at her again. "I _did_ see'm clear enough; I could drawr him …"

Sweet Dorset in every syllable, Will noted.

He dug for his notebook and pencil, handing them over to the girl without thinking about it. She took them with a murmur of thanks and began sketching quickly. Will noted Mr. Holmes was circling the room looking about, but his ear was out to the conversation right enough.

"Had a squint, he did, and hair like a turrier," she murmured to Will, who nodded.

"As in grey, or just wire-like, Miss?" he prompted.

"Both. Grizzled, but not owld. Mean looking one. Sort that's give you tin for brass," the girl replied, her drawing fleshing out under her moving hand. "He was in the passage and I sawr him when I come out of number fourteen and then . . . and then . . . ." The girl faltered and started to shake; Will set a steadying hand on her upper arm just as Mr. Holmes took the notepad. The girl dropped the pencil; Will wasn't aware of her slipping into the protective circle of his arm until she was against his chest, muffling her crying on his uniform jacket.

Mr. Holmes didn't seem to notice since he was engrossed in the drawing. Lestrade looked slightly embarrassed and rolled his eyes, but Will let the girl draw what comfort she could from him, and ever so gently patted her back.

She was warm, and fit against him nicely, in fact. Will thought she smelled good too; like clean cloth and lavender mostly, with some leather in there somewhere.

"Miss Mitchell, this is a remarkably good likeness," Mr. Holmes told her. "You have not a little talent."

"Thankyesir," came the muffled acknowledgement from somewhere along Will's jacket.

"More than just talent, too—you've studied art?"

"Grandfather," she finally raised her face, not quite stepping back from Will. He didn't mind.

"Taught you well, then. Lestrade, I'd suggest you get this around to your men and find out if anyone recognizes him or has seen him. Clarky, take Miss Mitchell home and make sure she's safe, will you?"

It was as good as an order, and cheeky as hell, even for Holmes, but when Will looked to Lestrade, his superior merely nodded, and that was all right then. He turned his gaze to the girl, giving her a quick smile.

"Shall we, Miss?"

She returned his smile timidly, and the sight of it warmed him right through, head to toes. He tucked his helmet under his arm and offered the other one to her, escorting her out of the hotel room and down the hall, letting her lead the way. They moved through the hotel and out along the kitchens; the girl knew her way and passed easily through spaces that took him a bit more time because of his size.

She stopped at a small worker's alcove to collect a thick, shapeless jacket, and finally they stepped out of a back door into a wide alley, where the sun was just touching the rooftops.

"Arre you really to see me home?" she asked, turning to look up at Will, who was putting his helmet on.

"You heard the order yourself, Miss," he agreed lightly. "We can't have good Dorset girls unprotected around here."

That made her laugh, and the husky giggles broke whatever ice was left between them. She pulled her coat more tightly around her and spoke up. "And what makes you think I'm good, Mr. Clarky?"

"It's Will, Miss, and I _know _you're good because you did the right thing back there," he assured her kindly. "Shall we?"

"I'm Charity, then. Hope your boots arre good because we've got a bit of a ways to step," she informed him ruefully. "Two miles."

"Who's afear'd?" Will replied gently, earning another sweet peal of giggles.

*** *** ***

Charity wasn't sure _what _to make of the ginger-haired copper who listened to her prattle on as they made their way down the streets. He was quiet, but he _did_ listen, and nodded in all the right places. She noted too, that even as he listened, Will looked around careful-like, and kept her to the left, away from the curb.

That was the act of a gentleman for sure; she knew that because Big Bob would have said so, and being a cabby, he'd know.

So she spoke of little things, glad to take her mind off of finding the body in room twelve, and tried not to sound silly, even though she worried about being turned out. Them in charge didn't like fuss, especially at a nice hotel like the Grand, but Charity was sure if it came to it, she could find another job. She was a good worker, she knew, and girls helped each other out when they could.

"You're from west too, arren't you?" she asked Will as they crossed a street together. He gave her another smile, which she liked.

"Weymouth. Got a dad down that way."

"I'm from Chiswell," she told him happily. "We're practically neighbors, then!"

"Down the beach side?" Will asked her, and they were off, comparing places and sharing a hundred little memories in a friendly way. It had been a long time since Charity had enjoyed the long walk home, and as they drew near to the livery, she sighed pleasurably.

"And we're here," she murmured, and then raising her voice called out, "Oy! I'm to home!"

"'Retty girl, you're off early. What happened?" came a gruff voice as a spry little man came out of the open door of the livery and up to her. He was bandy-legged and smelt of horse. His rolling gate would have been comical if his face didn't look so worried. Charity reached for his hands.

"Murder at the Grand," she murmured in a low voice. "I found the body, so this ever so nice constable walked me home. Big Bob, this is Constable Will Clarky, and constable, this is my uncle, Big Bob Mitchell."

"It's just Clark, actually," Will murmured, touching the brim of his helmet. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir."

The small man gave a sort of grumbling sound that could mean anything, and then looked again at Charity. "You're not in trouble then, girl?"

Charity shook her head. "No, not unless the place lets me go, but I don't see why. I'm good and quiet and gets it done, so it should be all right." She turned to Will and smiled at him. "Cuppa, before you set off again? It's the least we can offer for that nice walk."

She saw him hesitate, and added impishly, "Real clotted, on scones."

He smiled at that, and Charity loved the dimple on his cheek when he did. Will Clark was a fine-looking man, and although he hadn't spoken too much of himself, she sensed he was a bachelor, which was a nice thing too.

"Haven't had that in two years or more," he murmured wistfully, and Big Bob flashed him a look.

"West country?"

"Weymouth, sir. Around Preston, exact."

Charity thought it was funny to see her uncle's face relax a bit, and she let the two men chat for a moment as she slipped inside the building next to the livery, pulling her coat off and darting through the hallway towards the kitchen. "Auntie Nell! We've got comp'ny for tea; help me set."

The little round woman with the thick rope of braid on her crown bustled up, apron damp, clothespins in her mouth. She pulled them out and stared at Charity in astonishment. "What are you home early for? No trouble is it?"

"I'm fine. Murder at the Grand, and we have the constable who walked me home for tea. Any scones?"

"Fresh, in the larder under the cloth," Auntie Nell murmured, peeling off her apron and tucking away the pins. "Murder!"

"Mmm," Charity agreed frowning, moving to set out dishes and checking on the kettle. "It's a bad business. Lucky t'was me that found the man and not Eliza. She'd have screamed her head off and then some. Where's the jam?"

"Second cupboard. Lord! Was it bad?"

"Stabbing," Charity replied tersely, moving the jam out to the table and peering out the window. "We'll talk of it later, please?"

Curious, her aunt joined her, peeking out. She began to smile broadly at the sight of Will out in the livery yard. "Ooooh. I'd best get the good biscuits too."

*** *** ***

By the time Will finished, made his goodbyes and walked the two miles back to the Grande he was feeling very good. The distance was nothing, really; he was used to putting in a few miles each day anyway, and the added pleasure of a full tea was definitely a capper.

They were, he decided, good people. Clearly Miss Charity Mitchell was being looked after properly, judging by the careful eyes of her aunt and uncle. It had been an unexpected comfort to sit and eat familiar treats and share a few stories from back home. He'd tried not to tarry too long; happy times were few for a copper, but when Will had thanked them and went to leave, all of them saw him to the door.

"Thank'ee again for bringing our Charity home," the aunt had murmured.

"My pleasure," he'd assured them sincerely.

It had been, too. Not just the food or the company, as unexpectedly nice as those were. The girl herself was a sweet one, and a man could get lost in eyes that dear a blue.

A long time since he'd let himself admire a pair of eyes. Or anything else, if Will was being privately honest. He'd put the heartache of Jenny aside when he joined the force, and most of the time he was too busy to think of women. The memory of Charity Mitchell however, was putting a pleasant and not so polite tingle through him at the moment, so he picked up his pace and fought a grin, making his way back to the Grand in good time.

No-one was there, so Will sighed and debated where to go next. His superiors might be anywhere at this point, and the closest option was Baker Street, so he set off again. It was just after sunset by the time he made his way up the stairs to Mr. Holmes' rooms, removed his helmet and knocked.

"Come in, constable," came the familiar voice as he stepped inside. "I see you had a nice country tea with Miss Mitchell and family."

"Sir?"

"There is a hint of clotted cream on one corner of your mustache, and your fourth jacket button is undone where you thoughtfully tucked your napkin in to avoid spilling on your uniform."

Blushing slightly, Will used his free hand to do up the button, then brushed his thumb along his mustache. Mr. Holmes was looking out the window, and holding what appeared to be a dagger.

"Lestrade is off circulating Miss Mitchell's sketch and I am examining this. Do you recognize it?"

"The murder weapon?" Will ventured carefully.

Holmes turned and held it out, nodding just once. "It is, and not a very common one at that. This blade is a seventeenth century German hunting dagger, well-used by the condition of the blade and handle. I shall know more when my chemical analysis is done."

"And the victim?" Will asked. Usually Mr. Holmes was good about looking to those first. Never raising his eyes from the knife, the other man nodded.

"According to the hotel registry, he was Wilhelm Achen, an Austrian businessman visiting London this past week. Munitions, I gather, with connections all through the city, which makes narrowing our field of suspects difficult, but not impossible."

As Mr. Holmes rattled on, Will felt a pang of sympathetic admiration; it was hard on Mr. Holmes now that Doctor Watson was gone. The man wasn't showing off—indeed, he was working the way he usually did best: with an audience. Given how uncannily good Mr. Holmes was, Will didn't mind listening respectfully.

" . . . and then there is the matter of Miss Mitchell," Holmes finally wound down. Will blinked a little, and as he looked at the other man, he saw that the same concern on his face.

"If she's seen our killer . . ." Will began in a worried voice.

"Then most assuredly our killer has seen _her,_ yes," Holmes finished. "Her sketch will make his escape that much more difficult, and he will probably want her . . . neutralized."

"Murdered too, you mean," Will corrected him, his expression darkening. The thought was horrible, and Mr. Holmes's euphemistic term made it worse.

Holmes gave him a steady look. "Yes. He'll return to where he saw Miss Mitchell, and ask around for her, or watch the doors. She mustn't come to work tomorrow, Clarky. Can you convince her to stay away?"

"I'm sure I can," he responded quickly, without thinking about it. "Char—Miss Mitchell is a sensible girl; she'll understand."

"Sensible yes; understanding may take some effort," Mr. Holmes sighed. "I will personally make sure the Grand doesn't sack her, and until this matter is sorted out, it would be best if she was kept out of the way. When is your next day off?"

"Day after tomorrow, sir."

"How would you feel about having it moved up a day?" Holmes murmured, staring again at the dagger. "I'm sure Lestrade will see the sense of having you watch over the girl. She knows and trusts you already, and it would permit us to set up men around the Grand."

"Inspector Lestrade . . . *could* be made to see your reasoning, sir," Will ventured carefully. "If you think it's the best course of action."

Mr. Holmes was now . . . sniffing . . . the dagger, and looked up absently. Will admired the man's luck in not cutting his nose. "Certainly. About how tall would you say Miss Mitchell is, Clarky?"

"Five five, approximately, sir, give or take the odd inch."

"I shall have to stoop a bit then. Off you go; I'll arrange matters with Lestrade, so you'll be getting the nod by dinner tonight. Maybe Miss Mitchell would like a nice day at out at Hyde Park, or a boat on the Serpentine."

It was only after Will was halfway down the stairs that he realized what Mr. Holmes was going to do, and grinning, he wished he could see the man in skirts.

*** *** ***

Charity was . . . nonplussed. That didn't happen often to her, but in fairness she'd had a rough night, full of uneasy dreams and little sleep. The images of the murderer and his victim kept coming into her thoughts, and although she tried to tell Auntie and Big Bob she was fine, she knew she wasn't.

She didn't want to voice the fear that had come to her in the darkness of the night, that cold realization that somewhere out in the city was a man whose face she knew well enough to draw, and who had every reason to hunt her down now.

So just after dawn, the sight of Will Clark down in the kitchen sitting at the table and having a cuppa with Auntie Nell was both bewildering and reassuring at the same time. Charity blushed and drew a hand to her hair, which was down and unbrushed. "What are *you* doing here?"

Will looked different in regular clothes; he wore a clean but faded shirt with a fawn waistcoat, with his jacket hanging off the back of his chair, and Chastity liked his easy smile more each time she saw it.

"Morning, Miss Charity. I'm here to keep an eye on you today, courtesy of the Met."

"He's got a paper and everything," Auntie Nell broke in excitedly. "You're to stay away from the Grand today."

"I'll get sacked!" Charity cried, aghast.

"No you won't," Will assured her quietly. "Mr. Holmes and the inspector will see to that. Your aunt here tells me it might be a good day to do some shopping, so I'm to escort the both of you to market and back."

"Market?" Charity echoed, feeling slightly lost, but also cheered by this prospect. "Midweek?"

"Freshest catch," Auntie Nell beamed. "We'll do Billingsgate for treat; won't your uncle be thrilled with oysters tonight!"

"But . . . but . . ." Charity spluttered a bit, and then brightened. "We could get that ribbon I've had my eye on too, couldn't we?"

Will let them chatter on and concentrated on his tea, feeling amused at the plans going on around him. He'd never been much of a talker himself, and the sound of feminine voices was a pleasant change from the monosyllabic sounds of his boarding house.

Within twenty minutes, matters had been firmed up, and Charity was back, hair neatly pinned up, her Sunday shawl over her shoulders. She waited in the kitchen as Auntie Nell stepped out to the livery yard to have a word with Bob, and poured more tea for the quiet man at the table.

"It's because of him, isn't it?" she asked softly, knowing the answer already. Will looked up at her, gaze steady.

"'Tis," he nodded, "But Mr. Holmes has a plan, and when it all works out, you'll be back at the Grand tomorrow with your week's shopping all behind you."

"What about _your_ shopping, Will Clark?" she asked, suddenly aware that he was probably losing his only free day to her, and feeling guilty about it.

He smiled, and that dimple of his showed again. "A bit of ironing, and polishing m' boots can wait till Sunday."

"Ironing!" she murmured, surprised that a man would know anything about the process.

Will gave her a steady look. "My mother taught me, ages ago. Knitting now, never got that hang of that one."

She laughed. "It isn't easy, I grant you, but handy." Pausing, Charity added, "Are you *sure,* Will?"

"Yes," he murmured as the sound of her aunt returning grew louder.

The sun shone, and although summer was coming soon, there was still enough briskness in the spring air to make an extra shawl a comfort. Charity was glad of a warm arm to cling to, and on the other side of Will, her aunt was chattering away, speaking of everything and nothing in a bright tone of voice.

Around them the flow of foot traffic towards the wharf was getting thicker, and didn't do much to block the breeze coming off the water. Charity kept her basket from bumping people and glanced up at Will.

He had a nice profile, she thought—a good face, kind and there were those dimples. A few scars too, but given what he did for a living, she wasn't surprised. A copper's life had to be hard, especially in a city this big, and he'd probably seen more of the bad parts than anyone.

Then he turned and caught her expression. "Are you all right, Miss Charity?" Will asked her softly.

"Fine. A bit . . . brisk, this morning," she covered her thoughts smoothly and gave his arm a squeeze. "Think they'll have whelks?"

His eyes twinkled. "Now _that_ is a Chiswell treat. We'll see."

"Nearly there," Auntie Nell sang out, looking far too cheerful as she handed her basket to Will. "Let's have a look round—"

It was fun, moving from stall to stall, looking at the fish laid out so neatly, along with oysters and crabs and eels and all sorts of clams and mussels. The sweet briny scent mingled nicely with hints of tar and salt all around them. Auntie Nell bickered and bargained, never settling once for the stated price of a single item, and the basket on Will's arm filled up with various prizes very quickly.

Will proved to be very adept at keeping an eye out, Charity realized. He kept them from bumping into people, and steered them through the crowded stall aisles smoothly, doing it without drawing attention to himself. She imagined him as a sort of tall ginger sheepdog, guiding round fluffy Auntie Nell to and fro, and the image was so comically accurate that in the middle of the street she burst into giggles.

This made both of them look at her, and THAT made it worse. Charity fought to regain her composure, accepting Will's handkerchief to cover her face for a moment.

"Well! What's gotten into you, girl? She's not like this at home, you know," Auntie Nell assured Will quickly. "Ourr 'Retty is a good industrious _sober_ girl!"

"Of course she is," Will nodded. "I'm sure she's fine." He gave her a quick wink, and Charity was grateful that he seemed to understand. Later, when Auntie Nell stepped off to consider a stall full of coarse washcloths, Charity confessed to him in a low voice what had made her laugh.

His grin flashed out then sweet and vastly amused. "Oh Miss; as if _anyone_ could steer your aunt where she doesn't want to go!" Will whispered back, conspiratorially.

For the rest of the afternoon, if she caught Will's eye for too long at any point, they would both begin to grin and look away; it was great giddy fun to share a laugh that way, and Charity savored it.

The three of them returned from the market in good spirits, and Will was more than willing to help clean the fish out in the yard. Charity liked the look of him with his sleeves rolled up and his jacket off. He seemed younger, and the muscles of his arms showed through in a very attractive way.

She bit her lip as she considered him from the window, seeing the lines of his shoulders and easy strength. A fleeting, naughty thought passed through her that she'd like to see much *more* of him, and Charity tried to push that out of her mind.

He was here doing a job, and even if the day had been lovely, it wouldn't do to expect more; the man was here to guard her, not . . . court her, she regretfully acknowledged to herself.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time Will Clark arrived at the Grand it was already late afternoon and the lull made it easy to go around to the back and be admitted by one of the staff at the workingman's door. The head housekeeper, a strong, wide woman named Mrs. Strake, remembered him and gave a curt nod over her tea in the back kitchen.

"You're the copper who was good to our Charity. How is the girl holding up?"

"Very well," Will assured Mrs. Strake. "Is Mr. Holmes around?"

At the mention of the detective's name, Mrs. Strake fought a disapproving grin. "Ah yes, he's up on the third floor now, collecting sheets. Say what you will about his . . . appearance, the man's a hard worker. I'd hire him over half the girls who apply here."

Will grinned back, well-aware of the compliment within the chide. "A glowing reference indeed, ma'am. Have there been any . . . problems?"

Mrs. Strake's grin widened briefly. "Nothing beyond a pinched bottom so far. It's sad what a guest will try sometimes, isn't it?"

Will fought a chuckle, but it was very difficult, especially with Mrs. Strake and a few of the other chambermaids giggling around her. "Yes, well the Grand is known for exceptionally pretty chambermaids, Ma'am. I'll just see myself up and check with Mr. Holmes."

He left them laughing and made his way up the back stairs, trying wipe away his smile as he climbed; disguise was supposed to be serious business, even if Mr. Holmes tended to take it to a few extremes at times.

The upper hallway of the grand was thickly carpeted and although the gas lamps were on, still dim along the interior. Will stopped to look along the corridor, listening carefully. Most of the doors were closed, but near the middle of the hall, two were open wide and he made his way towards them, staying alert.

Peering in carefully, he watched as a figure in a black dress with white apron and bonnet carefully snapped a sheet over a mattress and began to tuck it in neatly around the edges. It was only the sight of those familiar hands—big-knuckled and square—that let him know it wasn't a woman making the bed.

He coughed. The figure, back to him, paused. "Clark. If you attempt any familiarities with me, I promise you will regret it."

"I wouldn't dream of it, sir," Will assured him, striving not to laugh.

Holmes rose and turned around, and it was startling how feminine he looked in the dress and cap. Will realized Holmes had shaved very closely, and had painted his face, bringing out his cheekbones and making his eyes quite . . . lovely, was the word.

Will blinked, and Holmes managed a coquettish smile. "Rather amazing what a little makeup can do, isn't it?"

"Indeed sir," Will nodded, as much impressed as amused. "And . . . Mrs. Strake speaks quite highly of your work as well."

"Not a word of that to Mrs. Hudson," Holmes sighed. "After this, I have no intention of ever making another bed, especially not my own. And do you have any _idea_ the degree of coarse behavior perpetrated on the female staff here by the male guests? I'm appalled!"

"Definitely a hazardous job," Will agreed, tongue in cheek. "You're brave to take it on."

Holmes gave a moue. "My admiration for chambermaids has risen to new heights, Clarky. Speaking of chambermaids how was Billingsgate?"

"Sir?" Will blinked in surprise. Holmes reached up and lightly plucked a single tiny fish scale from the edge of his vest.

"Scraped not more than two hours ago since it's still flexible. Further, I detect a faint odor of tar, probably from the soles of your shoes. Since the midweek catch is generally the best, I assume Miss Mitchell or her household coerced you into a trip to pick up some fresh halibut."

"Correct, sir," Will admitted. "A quiet errand, really."

"Good," came the absent reply. "I'm nearly done here, and will be heading to the laundry shortly. I suspect our man will wait until nightfall to make his move, since darkness will help him move through the hotel more easily." As he spoke, Holmes finished making the bed and fluffed the pillows. The sight was so incongruous that Will had to look away, lest he smile.

"He'll use a knife again?"

Holmes nodded grimly. "Not only is it his preferred weapon, it has the unfortunate advantages of portability and quickness. From the autopsy on our victim, it's clear our killer is adept with a blade."

Will frowned. "Where do you want me then, sir?"

Holmes smiled. "Lestrade has men watching the entrances, and one parked in the foyer, for all the good that will do. If you can get Mrs. Strake to let you stand in for the hall lamplighter that should keep you within shouting distance."

"Good idea, sir," Will agreed. "And if he doesn't strike?"

"He will," Holmes predicted grimly. "His likeness is up all over the city, and he cannot risk Miss Mitchell making another sketch of him."

"I see, sir," Will nodded. "All right, I'll check with Mrs. Strake and see what can be done."

"Good man. And Clarky . . ." Holmes hesitated, then asked, "is the padding . . . adequate?" he lifted his chin and with a faint hand sweep indicated his chest.

Nonplussed, but only for a second, Will twitched his mustache, and in a comforting tone replied, "It's . . . a good try, sir. Miss Mitchell is actually . . . rounder, and um, bouncier."

Holmes looked slightly crestfallen. "I suspected I should have gone with India rubber over pillows."

"It's an aspect of womanhood that's . . . difficult to imitate," Will reassured him loyally. "Unless you're a regular on the boards at the music halls."

"True," Holmes agreed glumly. "I yield to your greater experience in . . . assessing Miss Mitchell."

Will coughed slightly; it had the sound of a man not willing to admit to any such experience even though the slight twinkle in his eye assured it.

Holmes scooped up the old sheets and swept past him, the slight swagger to his hips in the very definition of feminine pique, once again making Will grin.

*** *** ***

It happened just after sunset; just as Holmes had predicted, Will realized. The hotel patrons were filling the halls, moving out to dinner or various shows along the Strand while new arrivals were moving into their rooms, exhausted after arriving from journeys of various distances. The corridors were busy and Will tried to keep an eye out for Holmes, but in the bustle of hospitality it was difficult.

He moved down the second story back staircase, hoping to catch up with Holmes when a soft 'thump' against a wall caught his ear. Hurrying, Will scrambled to room 213 where the door stood ajar, and looked in.

Holmes had lost his cap and was busy elbowing a man in dark clothing; both of them spun, but Holmes was faster, and with a lifted toss of skirts, managed to double-kick his assailant, neatly nailing him on chin and chest in quick order.

The man gave a half-grunt and stumbled back, crashing into one of the delicate dressers; Will kicked away the dropped knife and caught the man by the arm. A little wrestling ensued, but the assailant was groggy, and Will subdued him easily, feeling a surge of righteous anger that he tamped down as best he could in the face of duty. The man was nicked and stopped; that was what mattered right now.

After that it was all routine—well, all except watching Holmes give his explanations to Lestrade while still dressed in skirts. The inspector kept staring, his expression bouncing between horror and amusement, and it dawned on Will that Holmes probably hadn't told Lestrade exactly what his disguise would be prior to this.

Then it was time to escort the killer down to the Yard and get him processed. The man insisted on a German translator and solicitor, and between that and the paperwork, it was nearly ten at night before Will found himself off-duty.

He caught a cab and gave the address, hoping someone would be up; Big Bob might, but even if he wasn't, Will knew the news would be worth getting someone out of bed.

A single light was on at the back of the house so Will took the chance and knocked. As he expected, Big Bob answered warily, relaxing only when he recognized Will.

"He's been caught and put behind bars," Will told the man without preamble. "We nabbed him at the Grand earlier this evening, and Miss Charity will have to come in tomorrow to officially identify him."

Bob nodded, his shoulders relaxing. "Good." Seeing Will's serious face, he added, "Bad?"

Will lowered his voice. "He had another knife, and attacked our, er, man undercover. It's a damned good thing Charity wasn't there."

Bob swore, and sighed, then reached out to grab one of Will's hands, his callused fingers squeezing Will's hard. "Then you saved her *twice* by my count, and for that you're forever welcome under this roof, Will Clark!"

Will shook the hand, nodding compassionately. "Thank you, but it wasn't me alone, sir. I've got to get going, but I wanted you to hear the news and let Charity know I'll come for her at seven tomorrow. It shouldn't take long, and I'll take her to the Grand myself afterwards."

"Right," Bob nodded. "And we'll all sleep better tonight. Thankee again, Will."

That night, after crawling into bed and blowing out the bedside lamp, Will's last thoughts were of how sweet it would be to see Charity the next morning.

*** *** ***

He'd set aside money for the fare, but Bob wouldn't hear of it, and drove them both over to the Yard himself. In the cab, Charity looked pale but composed; Will took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

It was a nice hand, he acknowledged. Strong and warm; a good fit in his own. "You're safe," Will told her for the third time.

"I know, I know. As long as you're with me I won't be scared," she murmured back.

It was one of the nicest things anyone had ever said to him, and Will smiled. The cab was snug, and the feel of Charity's hip and thigh against his own as . . . nice. Will knew he should be concentrating on other things, but this little private moment was worth savoring, especially since Charity kept holding his hand.

Charity was glad to have something to cling to, and if it was Will, so much the better. She'd been relieved that the murderer had been caught, and knew aunt Nellie would celebrate it, probably with a cake. Charity didn't mind that; she was far more concerned with seeing the man face to face again.

He couldn't hurt her now, but that was hard to tell her stomach, and she tightened her grip on Will's hand the closer they got to the police station. Will didn't seem to mind, though, and kept smiling at her, helping her out of the cab like a true gentleman, and tucking her arm in his to escort her through the doors.

Then came the horrid moment when she picked the man out of the identity parade. He was shorter than she remembered, and in the light of the room his grey hair was greasy, but the look on his face shifted to menace seeing her, and Charity had to fight hard not to flinch.

Will was right behind her, and she felt his comforting presence there as she nodded slowly. "That second one, that's him. The one I sawr coming out of room fourteen."

The man glared at her, eyes narrowing. He muttered something under his breath, and Charity felt Will tense.

"None of that," he snapped in a hard voice. "Get him out."

The other police hustled everyone away, and Charity swallowed hard, feeling dizzy. Then Will set his hands on her shoulders, and the lovely, lovely weight of them calmed her. She turned her head to look over at him. He wasn't smiling, but his fingers squeezed gently. "Are you all right, Charity?"

"Yes," she told him, and for the first time, she believed it.

The ride to the Grand was easier, and Charity was sorry when it ended. Will helped her down right in front of the main doors, as if she were a lady, and then offered her his arm and brought her around to the back door. Once there, she hesitated, not really wanting to let go of that comforting support.

Will seemed to feel it too, and smiled at her before sighing. "I wish it was Sunday. There's a nice little spot in the Hyde for a picnic; close to the water, but in the shade. When it gets a bit warmer, we should bring your aunt there for an afternoon."

"She'd love that," Charity nodded, not sure if Auntie Nell would or not, but not caring either, since the thought of a picnic with Will was delightful. "I would too."

He gave a pleased nod, but before either of them could say a word more, the back door opened.

Alice, one of the morning shift maids peered out and giggled. "Oh! Caught you with your beau then, Char? Well give'm his kiss and get in here, 'cause we've got all of the third floor to do, *and* that bleeding chandelier!"

Blushing, Charity shot a helpless look at Will, who looked at Alice for a moment. Then he reached down to cup Charity's chin, very gently. Will tipped her face up; she felt his mustache brush her upper lip followed by the shockingly warm touch of his mouth on hers in a gentle but firm kiss.

She kissed back, the tiniest of her whimpers muffled between their lips; when he pulled away Charity instantly felt the loss and wanted another one.

Immediately, if not sooner.

"Will . . ." she began in a shaky whisper. He kissed her once more, more lightly this time, and then straightened up, his expression intense.

"I must get going, but I'll stop around on Sunday afternoon then, and bring something too," he murmured quietly. "Good-bye, Charity."

And with that Will turned and strode off in that easy long stride of his, and Charity watched him go, lost in a tumble of feelings that were now tenderly tangled.

"Come on then," Alice urged, grinning. "He's a looker, yah, but those carpets aren't going to beat themselves!"

"Right," Charity murmured, and turned to head into the back of the Grande.

She worked through the day with Alice chattering on at her side, cleaning rooms, turning carpets, dusting furniture and washing windows. Alice didn't seem to notice Charity's pre-occupation, which was just as well since Charity wasn't in a mood to speak. She let the memory of Will's kisses settle deep in her thoughts and concentrated instead on making the Grand's rooms shine.

By the time her shift was over, the sun was just over the western roofs, and Mrs. Strake rewarded her with a pair of hot beef pies to take home 'for keeping up the good name of the hotel.' Charity walked home thoughtfully, keeping to the main streets and making good time in the late afternoon, carrying the pies wrapped in a knotted cloth.

She reached the stable early enough to help Bob with some of the grooming. Charity liked the three horses quartered there, especially Napoleon, the big grey draft. He was extremely gentle, and seemed to appreciate a good currying, returning the favor by nickering softly and nuzzling Charity when she moved close to his face. He reminded her of the countryside, and Chiswell especially.

He was a good listener too, taking in the gossip with an ear twitch or two, letting Charity vent her frustrations or share her observations without interrupting. Today, Napoleon stood still and munched his oats as Charity made her confession, curry brush moving over his flanks.

"Will Clark kissed me today, Nap, and I liked it. I liked it a lot," Charity murmured softly. "What do you think of that?"

Napoleon whickered.

"He's a good man," Charity went on slowly. "Kind and gentle. Bit like you, really."

This made Napoleon swivel an ear towards her and Charity laughed, reaching to stroke the horse's velvet muzzle. "All right, not as handsome as you then, and certainly not as fast. Still . . . he's coming 'round on Sunday, so I've got two days to decide if . . . ." she paused and gave a shrug, laughing softly. "Yes that's the word. If. He's not like any of the others, I'll give you that."

And it was true. She'd like James, the young cabby who sometimes borrowed a hack from the stable for the Drury Lane runs after the shows let out. James was handsome and a smooth talker, but he spent money as fast as he earned it, and often showed up needing a wash and a shave.

There was Ethan too, the organist at church. He was a very nice man, although did seem to be perpetually under the thumb of his mother, who sat next to him on the bench and turned the pages as he played. Charity knew he liked her too, but would never dare go against his mother's wishes on any matter, particularly personal ones.

Charity finished up the grooming, put the combs and brushes away, then washed her hands at the outdoor pump and went into the house. Auntie Nell was already humming happily about the pies, serving one up on plates for dinner. She looked up at Charity and beamed.

"This was a nice surprise, lovey—I'll have to send by a few of my buns to Mrs. Strake to thank her. I'm glad she knows what a treasure you are."

"I'm glad the business is all over," Charity sighed. "Now I can get back to work without looking over my shoulder all the time. Oh, and Will's coming around on Sunday. Says he's bringing something too."

"Sunday? Oh that will be nice!" Auntie Nell nodded. "We'll have the last of the bream in butter then, and maybe some nice cheese and apple tarts. Time enough to sponge off that muslin dress of yours too—the green one that looks so nice on you."

"Auntie," Charity warned, feeling herself blush, "It's just a visit. This isn't anything . . . serious."

"Of course not," her aunt agreed, not looking at her. "I know that. But he's_ such_ a nice man, and it's good to talk to someone from home, you know."

Charity gave a little nod; all of them missed Dorset, and although they made a trek back once every few Christmases, it wasn't as if they could stay there anymore, not with work so hard to find.

"Call your uncle then, and let's say grace before this pie cools, dear," her aunt murmured sweetly.


	3. Chapter 3

And that was how it began.

Will came on that Sunday, bearing a goose, plucked and wrapped in brown paper, and a bag of toffee squares.

The following Sunday he brought some cheddar and a bottle of port for Bob. After dinner, Charity took a walk with Will and he told her about his wife.

"We married young," Will told her quietly as they made their way down the street towards the little park between Tulip Lane and Greenhill Road. "Jenny was on the sickly side, but as long as her brother and I helped her out it was all right. She had a bad leg from birth, and her lungs weren't strong."

Charity nodded, her arm looped through his, not wanting to interrupt, but curious despite herself. Will gave a sigh. "She died in the second winter after we were married. A fever went through the village and we lost a lot of the older folk too. Jenny didn't have a chance, really and . . . I didn't take it well."

"I'm so sorry," Charity murmured sadly, squeezing his arm. Will drew in a breath and looked at her shyly.

"It's all right. I just . . . thought you ought to know. Jenny died sixteen years ago, and I left Weymouth within a month. I couldn't take it, Charity—passing her grave everyday and not knowing what to do with myself. We lived with her brother, and I couldn't stay with him after that. I've never had much talent for farming anyway, and so I made my way here to London and signed up for the Force. At first it was to forget, and afterwards . . . well, I fit here."

"Yes," Charity agreed, "You do. I'm sorry about Jenny's passing."

"Thank you," Will nodded slowly. "She was a good girl, and I'm grateful for the time we _did_ have, short as it was."

For a while neither of them said anything. The wide gravel walk around the park was shaded and they walked together comfortably, quiet in the gathering dusk. Charity brought them to a halt before a statue in the center of the park; it was some notable from decades past, made less noble by the pigeons resting on his head.

"Be honest with me, Will Clark—are you coming 'round to see me, or just be with a family?" Charity asked in a quick, quiet rush. "Because I need to know. You kissed me—"

"—I told you about Jenny because I want to see you—" Will broke in, and Charity interrupted him.

"—and I said nothing about it, but—what?"

"I want to see you," Will told her slowly. "If that's all right with you, Charity. Your family's a good one, and I won't lie that being fed a nice dinner once a week isn't a treat, but . . ."

"But what?" She demanded, looking up at him, trying not to blush.

*** *** ***

Will looked down at her, feeling a rise of exasperated amusement. This girl wasn't about to let him off the hook, and although he admired that, he was too old to play games.

Not about matters like this.

It had taken him a few nights of sleepless introspection to get here, and those kisses at the Grand's back door had spurred Will into looking at facts carefully.

He was too old for this foolishness, he'd argued with himself. Too set on a career with the Force, to entrenched in the politics and workings of his job to go a'courting.

And then Jenny's words would come back, echoing in his thoughts. _'Promise me you'll marry again, Will.'_

He'd promised it. He'd have promised her _anything_ on that last day, when she was so flush from fever, so hot that no water-dipped rags could cool her down. Will had sworn to her that he would and then shoved that vow deep in the back of his mind, keeping it as far from him as he could.

Marry again. As if it was possible. Not in Weymouth, which was full of the memory of Jenny. So Will had come to London, set on joining up to be a soldier, but a copper who'd given him directions had taken an interest in him and suggested he try the Force.

Good advice, and Will had appreciated it. He'd done well, becoming a senior in a few years and then been assigned to the detectives. A few were mediocre, but others, like Lestrade were sharp and relentless. Will kept his eyes and ears open and learned a lot. He'd met Lestrade's associate Mr. Holmes and learned even more, although the man's methods were sometimes downright peculiar. Still, Will admired the man's case record, and made it known he was honored to work with him anytime.

Will had mates in the ranks, but not many chances to meet women; at least, not the sort of women one married, anyway. He had gotten an education about them as well, and although Will had been tempted once or twice, he'd made it a point to avoid soiled doves as best he could, feeling more sorry for them than interested. Whoring was a hard life; he'd seen too much of it firsthand.

Still, when off-duty Will found enough to content him. The library was free, and time at the pub with Davey and Lou was always good for a laugh. There were the music halls, and football or wrestling at the Hyde, and the steam baths as well as all the errands each week, and the months and years went by for him easily enough.

Sometimes his promise came to mind, but it was easy enough to push it aside. _Not yet, _Will would tell himself. _I'm not ready_.

But then Charity had happened, and it had all been coming at him from the side; catching him unawares. First she'd been Miss Mitchell, and then it was Miss Charity, and now . . .

Will spoke up. "But it's _you_ I'd like to see, regular," he told her gravely.

Charity looked at him, her blue eyes on his, and Will tried not to smile at her trying to puzzle things out. She gave a chuff, tilting her head to one side as one of the pigeons on the statue cooed. "You do?"

"Yes," he assured her, finally smiling. "You. The pretty one with the Dorset accent."

Charity tried to give him a stern look but it didn't quite work. "I'm plain as dirt, Will Clark. I've got rough hands and I lose my temper easily and I can't abide not having my say about things."

"Begging your pardon, but you _are_ pretty, and as for the rest of it, I can manage since I'm a man who works long hours, and never remembers to brush his hair, and I've been known to lose _my_ temper meself once in a while."

"Not as oft as me," Charity shot back, but she was smiling now, and he felt his chest lighten.

"Maybe not as oft, but it will be bad enough when it happens," he agreed. "And I'm older than you, Charity."

"Pfft," she made a dismissive sound, "Not by all that much."

"It's enough," Will tried to sound blunt, but Charity reached up a hand and gently stroked his cheek. Her touch was warm, tracing the curve of his dimple and he closed his eyes for a moment, savoring it.

She chuckled softly. "Aren't you the big ginger tom then? All right Will. You may come see me, if you've a mind to. I'd like that, _and _another kiss, please."

Will's eyebrow went up at this sweet boldness, but he took her hands and bent, kissing her upturned mouth gently. It was tempting as hell to make it a deep one, but he held back, and trailed his mouth across hers to plant little kisses from one upturned corner to the other before pulling back.

Charity smiled at him. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome," Will assured her, and holding out his arm for her once, more, escorted her back to the house.

*** *** ***

The spring came, and with it, more rain than London had seen in a while. Will didn't mind it too much, since bad weather generally kept most of the underbelly inside. Still, there were a few criminals who took advantage of the weather, and it was_ his_ bad luck to be chasing one of them when the ancient drain pipe over the outside staircase broke. The cascading deluge knocked both of them down, but Will took the brunt of it, since the burglar fell on top of him, and the two of them tumbled ten stairs down to the sidewalk.

Will lay gasping, which was a mistake since every breath brought white-hot pain through his chest. He turned his face and coughed; blood came up in a mouthful. Will lay there, dimly aware that he was getting soaked, but too caught up in the pain to worry about anything lesser.

Other officers scrambled over, and the minute one tried to help him up, Will gave an agonized cry. Terrified, the other officer let him go, and things after that were . . . hazy. Will vaguely recalled being propped against part of the wall, and then someone calling for a doctor, then someone else kneeling next to him, saying something that had a reassuring tone . . .

He opened his eyes and looked around an unfamiliar room. Will was in a bed, and light was coming through the window. Just after dawn, and that confused him because he last he remembered it was evening. Fretfully, he shifted.

That brought pain and he choked back a yelp.

"Don't you move, Will," Charity told him firmly from the chair next to the bed.

*** *** ***

It was a lucky thing that she was still up when the knock came at the door. Charity had just finished pressing Bob's Sunday suit and had hung it up on the kitchen pantry hook when the heavy rapping at the front door startled her. She took the candle with her, cautiously approaching the door, and hearing Bob's steps on the stairs behind her.

"Wait 'til I'm down, girl," he ordered, and she nodded.

When they opened it, Charity blinked at the rain wet figure on the stoop. "Mr. Holmes," was all she managed, surprised.

"Miss Mitchell. I bring the regrettable news that Constable Clark was injured this evening in the course of his duties," Holmes had said, in a hurried, strained sort of way. He was hatless, and soaked, but it didn't seem to bother him.

Charity gripped the doorframe. "What?"

"An accident involving a fall down a flight of stairs," Holmes told her brusquely. "He's currently being attended to by my colleague Doctor Watson. Given the extent of his injuries, Clarky needs bedrest and care . . ."

"We'll take him here," Bob nodded, and looked at Charity. "Your room; it's ground level and near the kitchen."

"Yes," Charity shot back, and looked at Holmes. "When can he be brought?"

"Within the hour," Holmes told her quietly. "He'll be all right; I've been assured of that, but at the moment, he's quite incapacitated."'

"Ribs," Bob muttered knowingly. "Or head. One of the two, right?"

"Both," Holmes nodded. "Although the ribs are worse. At least two are mostly likely broken."

"He'll be wheezin' then," Bob sighed. "Clean sheets, 'Retty, and get your aunt up; she'll get some mint water going." To Holmes he added, "Much obliged, sir—Will's like family to us."

"I thought as much," Holmes nodded, and Charity swore she saw him smile ever so faintly. "I will step around to his lodging house presently and let them know where he's being cared for."

"Good," Bob nodded. "And thankee again, Mr. Holmes. We'll be waiting for our boy then."

The awful minutes ticked by, and Charity filled them with work. Changing the sheets on the bed; checking the medicine box for bandages, liniment and salves; boiling up water on the stove and through it all, worrying and praying. Auntie Nell was bustling around too, although more calmly.

At last they arrived, and Charity waited as two coppers and another man helped Will inside. He was wrapped in an oilskin to keep the rain off, but his uniform and shirt were open. There was blood, mostly around his mouth and the side of his cheek. Charity moved to help, but Bob shook his head.

"We'll get him settled," he ordered her firmly. "You and your aunt get a basin ready to sponge him down. Nell, we'll want a basket for his gear."

The waiting was the worst part. Charity hovered at the closed bedroom door, wincing at every groan, and muffling a slightly hysterical giggle when she heard Will curse.

She supposed he'd know how; he was a country man at heart, and time along the streets of London would have added more to his vocabulary. Still, it was oddly reassuring to hear him let loose with a few obscenities, and she wiped her face, not realizing she'd shed a few tears.

When the door finally opened, the man with the mustache stepped out and spoke to her. "You're Miss Mitchell?"

"Yes sir," Charity bobbed out of habit; the man smiled briefly and then grew serious again.

"I'm Doctor Watson, and I'm pleased to meet you. Will's broken two ribs and has a few bad scrapes as well from his little trip down the stairs. I've wrapped his ribs up and given him a minute dose of opium for the pain. His wounds have been cleaned, but he'll need to stay in bed for the next week or so. I'll check back tomorrow and see how he's doing."

Charity nodded at all this, trying to look behind the man and into her room. Watson continued, "Here's a single dose of opium for use towards morning, if he's restless."

She took the tiny bottle and slipped it into her pocket; Doctor Watson waved to let her pass by him into the room and Charity did, moving quickly.

Will was there, blinking slowly. In the golden lamplight his hair was damp and flyaway; a scrape along the left side of his cheek was just forming a scab. He turned to look at her, and his pupils were dark, large and unfocused.

"I'm here," she assured him, worried at his lost look. Carefully she moved and took his hand, lacing her fingers with his and squeezing it. "You're going to be fine, Will. Just . . . rest up and get better, eh?"

His touch was cool; without its usual warmth, and Charity tried not to show her alarm. She bent over him, brushing his hair with her free hand.

Will let go of her grip, and his hand moved up, fingers lightly brushing her chest. The contact seemed to wake him, and he blinked, an uncertain smile coming to his mouth, finally. "Charity?"

"Yes, dear. You're with me," she assured him firmly. Charity knew it was the opium that had him disoriented—at least, she hoped that was all it was.

Will winked, slowly, and closed his eyes. "Oh good," he murmured, and suddenly his big frame seemed to relax all at once. He took a deep breath and seemed to drop off into sleep. Charity heard Doctor Watson come into the room, clearing his throat.

"He will probably be out most of the night, and the sleep will do him good. Do you have any experience with wounds, Miss . . . Charity?"

"Yes. You don't work around a stable without getting some," she murmured, and to his credit, Doctor Watson nodded agreeably.

"True, unfortunately—well, fortunate in this case, since you know what to do. Carbolic wash for the scrape on his leg, and liniment for his ribs twice a day. Try to keep them wrapped securely."

"I've wrapped horses' legs before," Charity nodded, "firm but flexible-like."

"Precisely," Doctor Watson nodded to her. "And my card, in case you need me tonight. I'll stop in tomorrow and see how he's doing."

Charity bit her lip, and Watson added, "There will be no charge, Miss Charity. The force will never find a better man than Will Clark, believe me. Both Mr. Holmes and I owe him a great deal, and a chance to repay part of that is our honor."

That made her smile, and she nodded.

*** *** ****

Charity stayed with him through the night. Her Aunt had insisted she leave the bedroom door open wide, but other than that, she and Bob didn't say anything further, just pulled the kitchen rocker in the room and gave Charity one of the quilts.

She blew out the lamp and dozed, wrapped up but keeping an ear out for Will. Charity dreamed only briefly, and woke before dawn, scurrying to the outhouse and washing her hands before coming back to check on the man in her bed.

He looked better, and seemed to be sleeping well as Charity pulled the blanket up around him and sighed. "This is what life is going to be like with you, isn't it, Will?" she whispered. "Never knowing if you'll be coming home battered, or worse. Wondering if you'll even _be_ coming back. Not like a soldier, gone for months or years at a time, no, this would be just day after day of the risk."

Charity wanted to have a good cry, but forced herself not to; Will was here and was going to need her: that was what mattered right now. Carefully she wiped her wet eyes again, and settled back into the rocker.

A few minutes later, he shifted and groaned.

"Don't you move, Will," Charity told him firmly from the chair next to the bed. He opened his eyes and managed a very weak smile as she rose and came over to him, catching one of his hands.

"You_ are_ here," he murmured, and winced, gasping a little.

"Actually, _you're_ the one that's here, and what's more you're in my bed," Charity informed him with a wry smirk. "Do you remember what happened last night?"

"I remember going after Light-Hand Harry along the back staircase of Elliott and Sons over near Piccadilly," Will murmured. "Slippery as an eel that one, and damned fast. He had a head-start up, but . . ."

"But the gutter gave way," Charity filled in. "You've broken a few ribs and given a few people a scare."

He lightly squeezed her hand. "Takes more than a tumble to send _me_ to St. Peter."

"Yes, well it was enough to bring Mr. Holmes to our door looking like something that washed up on the Thames," Charity informed him. "_And_ a doctor to look you over as well."

"What? Doctor Watson?" Will blinked. "Himself?"

"Himself," Charity assured him with a brief smile. "How are you feeling?"

Will considered it for a moment. "Thirsty."

She brought him some water in a small mug, warning him to drink slowly and refilled it for a second drink. "Slowly!"

"It's good," he protested, and coughed.

Charity gave an exasperated snort and took the cup from him, setting it on the nightstand. "Are you in much pain?"

"Hardly any," Will grunted, and then squeezed his eyes shut. "Hardly."

"D'you need help to the privy?" Charity went on forthrightly. "And don't think I'm going to let you try walking there alone. You can go in by yourself, but—"

Will opened his eyes and tried to glare at her, but one corner of his mouth was curling up. "Confess, Charity; I look like shit, don't I?"

She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, and her lips trembled with the effort of not giving into either one, but Will reached for her and pulled her down against him, and the sweet smell of warm sleepy Will made the tight knot in her chest loosen up.

"Oh God, I'm glad you're going to be all right!" Charity sniffled, her words muffled against the pale skin of his neck. "And yes, you do look like a great big lump of cat's meat."

Will laughed lightly. "That's my girl, honest to a fault. One last thing, sweetheart---"

She looked up at him, and Will gave her a hopeful look. "Did I catch Harry?"

Charity gave him an exasperated roll of the eyes. "Yes. And _he's_ got a broken arm."


	4. Chapter 4

It was a slow Sunday and Will didn't see much of it; he dozed until noon, and had some broth later in the day. It was excellent broth too, with tender bits of fish in it, heated and brought to him with great ceremony by Auntie Nell, who stood over him to make sure he drank every drop.

"Fish is healing food; those ribs will mend up in now time with good fish in you."

In the late afternoon Davey and Lou stopped by, the two of them looking sheepish as they were herded into the room.

"Oy, hero," Davey chuckled. He was a tall, lean fellow with a long narrow nose and lanky blonde hair. Will knew his friend looked as if a high wind would blow him over, but Davey was tough, and had gone up against thugs who gave even Lestrade pause.

"You look like you tried to wash your face with cobblestones," Lou murmured bluntly. Lou was the handsome one, with a dark complexion and hair in curly ringlets. He was half-French and could charm his way anywhere.

"Got our man, that's all that matters," Will harrumphed, sitting up against the headboard and then grinned. It hurt a little; the scrape on the side of his face protested, but it was good to see his mates.

Lou rolled his eyes. "Yeah, if you can call havin' him use you to land on as a proper collar, Will. You're too soft on criminals."

"You mean _under_ them," Davey snorted. "Cushy Will."

Charity unobtrusively brought everyone cups of tea, and they all settled on the chairs around the bed, chatting easily.

"Molly's holding your room for you of course, and sends her regards. Hopes you're healing up all right," Davey went on. "And we grabbed you a few things—shaving kit, change of clothes, your Kipling,"

"Much obliged," Will said softly, grateful for both friends. They handed over a neatly wrapped bundle to Charity who set it aside on the dresser. He cleared his throat murmuring thanks and added, "This is Miss Charity Mitchell. Charity, these are Constables Davey O' Conner and Louis LeGrand."

"Charmed, Miss," Davey told her. We've heard very nice things about you,"

"You have?" Charity sounded astounded, and even Will chuckled at that.

"You bet. Our boy comes back on Sunday nights grinning like a cat with a mouthful of canary feathers," Louis announced cheerfully. "Brags about how beautiful you are and how well you cook. I thought it was to make us jealous, but now I see Will's been telling the truth."

Will loved the way Charity's cheeks flushed, especially when Louis added, "Yes, it's clear why he'd rather recover here than back at the lodging house."

"Enough," Will muttered, going a bit red himself. "Tell me what happened to Harry's accomplice."

"Rudy," Davey sighed. "Got clean away, damn his eyes. Compton's convinced he'll lay low, but Lestrade thinks the man will try a job on his own; says without Harry to hold him back he'll get careless. What do _you _think, Will?"

"I'm with Lestrade. He'll hit a small shop," Will predicted, and that led to a lively discussion among the three of them about who was the better detective: Lestrade or Compton, and what shops Rudy might try for.

A short while later, Will coughed, and Charity took that as a sign that the visit was over. She sweetly herded Davey and Lou out, thanking them for the visit, and told them to come back in a day or so, then came back to catch Will rubbing his side.

"You need liniment," she told him, and Will gave a rueful nod of agreement. The visit had tired him out, and his head ached now, along with his side.

He looked up again as Auntie Nell stood in the doorway, looking worried. She had her cloak and hat on. "Will . . . Bob and I are off to late mass, what since we missed it this morning with your accident . . . unless you _need_ us . . ." she came into the room and took one of his hands uncertainly.

"I'll be fine," Will assured her with a smile that he strove to make look natural. "Would you do me a favor please, Nell, and light a candle for my mother?"

The woman nodded sweetly. "Consider it done. Charity's here and we'll be back in an hour or so. There's more broth on the back pot of the stove, and I laid by some fresh rolls too. I'll have Charity put a drop of brandy in the broth so you can sleep better tonight."

"Thank you," Will told her, patting her hand.

Then they were gone with a flurry of goodbyes, and Charity was coming in, a tray with liniment and bandages in her hands. The sun was starting to set, and she lit the lamp at the bedside, golden light spilling across the room.

"All right; let's see how bad it is," Charity murmured, and sat on the edge of the bed, reaching for his nightshirt.

Will watched her slowly undo the buttons of his night shirt, feeling a rush of emotions at the sight of her fingers pushing the cloth open. She was staring now at his chest, and he tried to hold still, but it was embarrassing and arousing to see Charity so caught up.

"Oooh, you're not a tom," she whispered, running a gentle hand across the red-gold curls that covered his chest from nipple to nipple. "You're a ram!"

Will flushed, closing his eyes. "Runs in the family," he muttered. "All the Clark men are a bit . . . furry."

"It's . . . very nice," Charity replied, her voice a bit breathless. Will realized she was slowly stroking his chest now, and the sensations were making him acutely aware that the two of them were alone, on a bed.

With great reluctance, Will reached up and caught her slender wrist, pulling her hand ever so gently away. "Be a good girl now, Charity. I'm not . . . made o' stone, sweetheart," he murmured huskily.

Charity gave a small sigh and looked up at him, eyes bright as she helped him out of the sleeves. "You're right, but still—you're a fine-looking man, Will Clark."

That brought another chuckle, and then she got to work, unwrapping the bandages along his ribs and clucking over the dark blotches of bruise all along his left side. The first dab of liniment burned, and Will gritted his teeth as Charity lightly smeared it along his flank, fingers as much a thrill as a torment. Her touch, and the gentle look in her eyes made things damned difficult, but Will wouldn't have traded it for anything.

More than ever, the _rightness_ of it all left him quietly aware of what he could no longer put off admitting, and as Charity finished wrapping the bandages around his ribs, he studied the crown of her head, admiring her dark hair and cinnamon freckles.

He loved her. It was simple and true; more than just for this moment, but because this moment put so much of it into focus. Charity's touch, and voice and scent were dear and familiar; necessary now for his peace of mind.

Will waited until he was buttoning his shirt and she was finished fussing over the last end of the bandage, tucking it securely in before he caught her attention with a little murmur. She looked up questioningly as she wiped her hand on her apron, and from where he sat, Will bent slowly to kiss her.

A good kiss, and this time there was no hesitation. Will pressed harder, feeling Charity's lips open under his. He gave a happy hum and let his tongue glide forward to meet hers, delighted in the happy shudder that ran through her frame at this unexpected thrill.

One kiss led to another, and Will couldn't count how many more followed, each delicious and fulfilling. He'd been starving for affection he realized, and Charity seemed to have been the same way as her arms went around his neck, holding him close. The leaning weight of her made Will's ribs ache, but he didn't let her go, and kissed her cheeks and ears and chin, coming back again to her soft, warm mouth time and time again.

He wanted her, but Will could deal with that. He had to—this was certainly no place to go any further—but for the moment the touch and kisses of the woman he loved were doing their own sort of nurturing, and Will considered himself damned lucky. He broke off a kiss and laughed, the sound of it low and contented in the room.

"What's so funny?" Charity murmured sweetly, "It can't be the liniment."

"No, sweetheart, I'm just feeling better," Will assured her with a smile. "Feeling well-taken care of."

"It's a job I like," Charity confessed, looking down at the coverlet. "You need someone like me, Will, and I need someone like you."

"Yes," he told her, and lifted her chin with his fingers to kiss her again. "And when it's your turn, I intend to do a grand job of taking care of you. That's a promise, my girl."

"You already did," Charity told him cheekily. "You saved me from being murdered, remember?"

"That wasn't the sort of taking care of you I meant," Will murmured meaningfully, and Charity blinked, suddenly understanding his words.

She gave a little gulp, and then the front door began to rattle; Charity slid off the bed and grabbed the tray, trying to look innocent. Will watched her bustle out, and he ran a hand over his bristly chin, wondering if he should attempt to shave or wait until morning.

*** *** ***

He healed; after the first two days the boredom was driving him a little crazy, but Will made an effort to be good. In the day, Nellie brought him small chores to do: sorting bills, writing out receipts in the livery ledger, shelling peas. She chatted to him, and let him come out to the kitchen table to keep her company as she cooked and kept house. Bob stopped in for lunch and shared the news of the day, and bit by bit Will learned all about the business.

The livery was doing fairly well, and Bob ran a reliable stable. He kept his animals in good condition and wouldn't hire to anyone who took less than top care of them as well. The only drawback was that an aggressive and younger pair of brothers had just set up shop one street over and had been waging a campaign to steal away some of Bob's clients by offering lower prices for the day's rent.

"They treat their horses like meat," Bob growled. "I don't hold with that, not in my stable. You treat a good horse right and he'll pay you back tenfold, every time."

Will nodded. "Eventually their place will fold, if they wear out their livestock."

"Yeah," Bob agreed glumly, "But it kills me to know it's at the cost of good animals. City people don't think of the creatures hauling them. All they care about is getting somewhere as fast as possible and damn the cost."

"I know. It's a crime, and I've stopped a few of the harder abuses I've seen," Will murmured. "Still, you wait out those two and you'll be the one to last."

"Mebbe," Bob nodded. "Still, Napoleon's not getting any younger, and I'd rather give him light work while I can. A nice trap 'round the parks would be perfect in summer for a good old man like him."

"And winter?"

"Delivery—I know some posh places that need a quick haul within the city, nothin' my big one can't handle," Bob bragged with a smile. "Horse knows this city better than I do most of the time anyway."

"I'm not surprised," Will smiled. "Let me do some asking around and I'll see what else is out there."

Bob gave another nod and took out his pipe. "Fair enough. We're not getting any younger, any of us."

Will shot the other man a look and held it, waiting until Bob had gotten his pipe lit before clearing his throat. "I'm much obliged to you, Nell and Charity, Bob. It's meant a lot to me to be taken in this way."

Bob gave a shrug and a brief smile. "Ah, t'was the Christian thing to do, and besides, I'd have never heard the end of it if I hadn't. Between the two of those women I'd have been deaf in a day."

That made Will laugh, and then his expression grew serious once more as he glanced around. Charity was at work and Nell had stepped around to her friend Mrs. Sutton, leaving the men to their lunch, and the quiet was peaceful.

"I've been meaning to speak to you about Charity," Will began, his voice slightly uneven. Bob gave a slow nod, indicating he should go on, and Will tried. "About her future," he added.

"Aye. What about it, then?"

"I've been thinking about it. And mine."

"That's good," Bob encouraged, his expression wary. "You're a thoughtful man."

"I've been thinking . . . I'd like a future _with _her," Will admitted, his words deliberate. "That is, if she'll have me, and if it sits right with you and Nell. I've got a good nest egg set by, and a steady job, and . . ."

" . . . And?" Bob prodded, pulling out his pipe and giving Will a cautious gaze.

"And I love her," Will confessed, his face going red. This wasn't the sort of thing you admitted to another man, let alone the guardian of one's beloved, but it was honest, and Will suspected that although Bob probably already knew it, saying it helped.

It did. Bob drew in a deep breath and lifted his chin. "Ahhh, Will, she's an amazin' lovely girl, the joy of our house, but you've got to know that she's holding precious little dowry—less than a hundred pounds all told, along with some dishes and linens. Nell and I have been putting by a bit more, but your marrying her had better be love, 'cause it ain't gonna be for money, my lad."

Will laughed; he couldn't help it, and fortunately Bob joined in, his chuckles making little puffs come out of the bowl of his pipe when he set it back in his mouth.

"I'm not looking for a fortune," Will pointed out firmly when they'd both managed to settle down again. "Money's a useful thing, but in the end, it's just a thing. Means with no soul to it, and believe me, I know that the hard way. I deal each day with men who don't. No, I want what I didn't think I'd ever have a chance at, Bob. What you and Nell have already."

"Then you're a wise man on top of everything else," Bob agreed, his eyes twinkling. "Let me talk to Nell, since this is better discussed than decided alone. Although--" and here he leaned forward conspiratorially, "I doubt they'll be any objection. Just between us."

Very humbly, because he felt the relief and joy down to his toes, Will murmured, "Thank you, Bob."

Bob reached out a gnarled and callused hand, patting Will's and giving a sanguine nod.

*** *** ***

The sudden rush of late spring visitors meant longer hours at work, and Charity didn't begrudge the chance to make a little more money, but it was tiring, and she wished she had more time to see Will. He'd taken to stopping by every few days around teatime at the hotel, often bringing a small treat to be shared around with the rest of the staff. Mrs. Strake approved of him, and most of the other girls thought him a good man, much to Charity's blushes. Both Eliza and Alice wanted to know if he'd tried to get fresh yet, and she wasn't sure what to say, so she said nothing and smiled.

The truth was, she and Will were a lot more . . . affectionate than they'd been before. They held hands, and took long walks in the park together now that the weather was finally warming up, and although Auntie Nell made it a point to let them have some time alone together, it was nearly always in public, which was . . . well . . . frustrating.

Charity sighed. She was from the country and no stranger to the mating habits of all manner of animals. From both her friends and guests at the Grand, she'd heard a great deal about the habits of men as well, and before this she'd been able to dismiss most of it with an amused grin or a shocked giggle. But that was back when she hadn't put much hope in a future for herself with a man in it.

Some of the girls had beaus and sweethearts; a few even had husbands, but Charity hadn't considered anything along those lines in a long time. She'd had a few hopes, and some moon-eyed moments considering James or Ethan, but deep in her heart, the pragmatist in her dismissed them. No, there was no money, and anyway, she couldn't leave Nell and Bob without some support. They'd taken her in and loved her; brought her up and gave her a home when she could have ended up in an orphanage.

She owed them too much to just . . . leave them.

But now there was Will, and he kept coming to see her, and he was fitting into the family now. Before it had been just the three of them going to the fairs, or church or taking a trip out somewhere. Now there were four, and it felt right and sweet and . . . frustrating.

Charity couldn't forget his kisses. They'd only had a few precious opportunities to kiss again since those far back in March, but the memory of them made her tingle, and she knew he felt it too. Sometimes Will gave her a look; a special one that made her feel as if there was no air around her to breathe, and she knew he was remembering those kisses. That he was thinking of her as a woman and not a girl.

She didn't know how to get her sense of balance back, and all through the spring and into the summer, Charity felt like a circus pup on a balancing board, running to one end with joy at being with Will to anger at not knowing what _really _was happening to her, and around her, and in her. She became quiet sometimes, and overly chatty at others; Charity wished there was some magic word that would soothe the tangled ball of feelings rolling around in the pit of her stomach.

Therefore when Will suggested a nice Sunday trip to Brighton, she almost said no.

"It's too far, and costs too much," she'd tried to protest, but he shook his head and of course her aunt chimed in as well.

"You deserve a break, 'Retty, and we both know Jane owes you for covering for her two weeks ago! Besides, both your uncle and I are looking forward to a little fishing and good sea air."

"Yes, it will wonderful in _this _weather," she griped, but softly. The skies had been overcast most of the week, without much break in the clouds, but her aunt seemed to take it in stride.

"Just you wait; you'll feel differently once we get down by the water! I know you miss it."

That much was true, anyway, and with mixed feelings, Charity began to make plans for a day at the seaside. Since it was getting warm now, nearly summer, she chose her second best Sunday dress; the tan muslin with little blue flowers on it. She and Nell had sewn it together two years ago, and it was a little old-fashioned, but still one of her favorites since the sleeves could be rolled up—discreetly—and she knew the cut flattered her. Nell began to make goodies to go into the picnic hamper as well: Sandwiches of all sorts, cold slices of beef, fancy pickles, even a crock of boiled potatoes and new butter along with blankets and plates and napkins.

Even Bob spent time getting ready, leaving directions for James and Ned, the head groomsman, and making arrangements for their trips to and from the train station. He dug out some of his fishing gear and sharpened the hooks, whistling all the while.

They caught the nine o'clock train, and Will helped them board, deftly handing up the hamper to Bob and then holding out a hand for Nell and Charity. Once inside, the four of them found a compartment close to the end, and settled in, feeling a little in awe. For the Mitchells, it was only their third time on a train, and although Bob and Nell tried to maintain a sense of dignity, Charity pressed her nose to the glass and looked out across the station, watching people delightedly. Will, who sat opposite, watched her.

"They're the same people you see on any street, you know," he teased. "Same tradesmen and ladies and urchins."

"They look different from a seat up high," Charity tried to explain. "I feel like a princess, looking at them."

"You'd make a good princess," Will told her, his smile bringing out his dimples, and Charity shot him a quizzical look, so he elaborated over the chuff of the steam. "You'd watch out for them; make sure everyone had enough to eat."

"And wash their hands," she murmured, getting into the game. "Nobody could say 'no' because I'd be the princess, ta."

"Yes indeed. And you'd always have a handkerchief, and a lucky sixpence," Will nodded. "Wait—I have those. I guess that makes_ me_ a princess."

This make Charity laugh, and her aunt looked up from the timetable, puzzled. "Are you all right, 'Retty?"

"I'm fine," she assured her aunt, reaching for Will's hand and giving it a squeeze. "Just fine," Charity added for him.


	5. Chapter 5

They arrived around mid-morning, and the skies were still overcast, but it was a nice day and the breeze was light, making the pennants snap high above on the pier poles. Will shouldered the hamper, settling the straps on his big shoulders, and let Bob lead the way down to one side where other picnickers were already setting up their own blankets and beach goods out along the sand. There was a nice little cove between tall sand dunes, and Nell pronounced it perfect, so they settled there. She and Charity laid out the horse blankets quickly, bundling their outer coats for extra cushions.

'Go along to the pier and see about your fishing," Nell told Bob with a smile. "We'll be fine here, and fix up our supper in a few hours."

"Right!" Bob cheerfully picked up his pole and sack of fishing goods. "I won't catch a blasted thing, but it's worth a try."

Puzzled, Will watched him go, and settled down on the blanket near Charity. "He knows he won't catch anything already?"

"Oh no, he just says that as a sort of charm," Charity admitted. "Bob feels that whatever he says, the opposite will happen. So since he really _wants _to catch a fish, he's got to say that he's NOT going to catch a fish."

"That . . ." Will murmured, "Almost makes sense. Sounds like my dad."

"So what's he like, your dad?" Nell asked encouragingly, and the conversation was off. Charity listened as Will painted pictures of a simple childhood and good memories. Even when he touched on the death of his mother, the words were gentle and without regret.

Finally he wound down, adding softly, "So when I was twelve, my dad re-married, and he and my step mother Hannah are doing well. Her kids run a little shop just off the train station, and Dad's good at pulling pints and cooking up sausages for the travelers. I still send him a bit, of course—with five in the family it's hard sometimes to make ends meet—but the oldest, Thomas, has just gotten his commission, so that will be a big help."

"Sounds like they're a lively group," Charity ventured, smoothing down her skirt and thinking about his family; she wished she could see them, and wondered how many of them had his smile.

Will smiled, and a quick breeze stirred his hair. "That they are. It's good to see them now and again."

"Family's good," Nell agreed. "Some you're born with, and some you make yourselves. Oh, have a look—seems Bob _has_ caught something!"

The bandy-legged hero of the hour was striding up, three fair-sized fish dangling from his stringer, his expression triumphant. "Ha! Would have caught more, but I lost my bait in the battle with this one! We brought paper, right, Nell?"

"That we did," his wife assured him with a smile. She wrapped up the three cod with newspaper, nodding as Bob relived his victories, complete with sound effects and embellishments.

Charity giggled and Will listened with interest, and when Bob finally wound down, he snapped his suspenders in a smug way and asked, "So . . . what have we got to feed a big and daring fisherman, eh?"

"Have you washed your hands?" Nell asked suspiciously, and when Bob looked guilty, she ordered him down to the water's edge for a rinse while she and Charity unpacked the hamper.

They had lunch, and Charity enjoyed herself tremendously. Despite the grayness of the day, the food was wonderful, and the simple joy of watching the ocean and breathing in the salty air did wonders for the soul. She noted that Will looked relaxed too, and that he kept looking at her, particularly when he didn't think she was noticing. It was a nice feeling, and it warmed her deeply inside.

When the last potato had been eaten—divided by Bob and Will—and the last bottle of ginger beer had washed it down, Bob lay back and crossed his arms behind his head. "That's it then—I'm going to take a little rest right here and now. Nell?"

"I've got knitting," his wife told him comfortably, "You_ need_ a new sweater, and this may be me only chance to get a good bit of it done. Charity, here—" Nell passed a handful of change to her. "I would like something sweet from the pier—taffy if they have it would be lovely, but you know what I like. You and Will are going on up there, aren't you, dears?"

"Charity?" he asked, his expression eager, and she nodded, letting him help her up from the blanket. She brushed her skirts again, and picked up her soft wrap, draping it over her shoulders.

"All right then," Nell nodded. "We've a couple hours yet until the trip back, if it doesn't rain before then. Have fun my sweeties, and remember—taffy please!"

They made their way down to the firmer strip of sand and turned up, towards the wooden stairs and the pier, Charity's arm linked with Will's.

*** *** ***

The view from the end of pier was gorgeous, and they had it almost completely to themselves. Both Will and Charity stood at the rail, drinking in the view of the water and sky blending into a horizon of greys, blues and greens, ruffled by the wind. They didn't speak for a long moment, content in each other's company, and Will thought he'd never felt so happy. Without conscious thought, he slipped an arm around her shoulders, cuddling her against him as they both leaned on the white wooden rail.

"It's quite a view, isn't it?" he finally managed, feeling nervous.

"Oh yes," came Charity's dreamy reply. She had her arm around him as well, and was hugging him warmly. "One of the best. Thank you so much for today, Will. I've needed this. Just—time away from London, and time. . . with you. Thank you, dear."

"You're welcome, love," he murmured back, kissing the crown of her head. "No one I'd want to share the day with more than you."

"Mmmmm," Charity made a contented sound, pressing closer to him.

"Truthfully, Charity Elizabeth Mitchell, I'd like to share the rest of my days with you," Will went on, his voice dropping lower. "Every last one, if you'll have me."

He froze, waiting to see if she understood and time seemed to slow, heartbeat by heartbeat.

Charity stiffened against him, her breath caught. She turned her face up to him, and the wind stirred her dark hair as she blinked. "Will . . ."

"I love you," he told her, feeling helpless against the brightness of her blue eyes. "Have for a while now, and I know I haven't said it, but it's true."

"I know," she blurted, her mouth curling into a shocked smile. "And I love you _too_, you big goose!"

Will broke into a laugh, his relief shifting into sudden, fierce joy. He slid his hands to cup her face, keeping her eyes locked on his. "Then you'll have me?"

"William Clark if you don't kiss me _right_ now--!" she threatened, tears welling in her eyes. She never got to finish the threat before his mouth came down on hers, warm, soft and most of all, possessive.

One kiss led to another, and that would have led to a third, but a harrumphing sound brought both Will and Charity back to their senses as a nearby elderly woman with double armfuls of small yapping dogs stared at them. "Re-ally! Making such spectacles of yourselves in public is interfering with the view!"

"Begging your pardon madam; I was overcome by the joy of the moment," Will smoothly told her. "We are newly affianced."

She wavered, her sharpness fading for a moment, and the faintest of smiles touched the corner of her mouth. "Ah. Well that's another matter." the woman gave a sigh, "Congratulations to you both then, now please . . . comport yourselves as proper and polite young adults."

"Madam," Good-naturedly, Will made a courtly nod of his head and turned Charity gracefully away from the rail.

They were about to step away when the woman spoke again. "I assume there is a ring, young man?"

Will started, and looked from Charity to the woman, smiling once again. "Yes. Yes there is, Madam—thank you for reminding me!" He fished deep in his inner coat pocket, pulling out a neatly folded handkerchief and carefully opened it up to uncover a delicate pair of gold rings cunningly entwined and engraved with tiny flowers.

Charity gave a little gasp at the sheer beauty of it, and the old lady set a dog down, whipped up a heavy silver lorgnette and examined the rings for a quick moment. "A gimmal ring; very appropriate, and tasteful, young man; I approve."

Will nodded, too happy to worry much about anyone else's opinion but Charity's. He took her hand and slipped the ring on her finger. She giggled nervously, staring at it, and then looked up at him, her eyes wet. "It's . . . it's too good for the likes of me, Will!"

"Nonsense," the old lady broke in, and then had the good manners to look slightly embarrassed. "I'm dreadfully sorry my dear, but that ring is a token of his love, and as such speaks of how precious you are to him. Accept it for what it is—a mere fraction of your worth in his heart."

"Yes, that's it exactly!" Will nodded, his eyes never leaving Charity's. "It's only a smidgen of what I _feel_, love."

Charity cupped his face in her hands and kissed him, then pulled back, murmured another apology to the woman and took Will's hand, tugging him away and back up the pier. He followed her, amused to be trotting, and about to pull her to a stop when Charity turned and drew him into a tiny alcove between buildings and kissed him again.

This was sweeter, hotter, and far less polite; Will felt the warm hunger of her mouth against his, and kissed back, feeling a joyful lust that left him slightly breathless when he pulled back. "Sweetheart," he warned, blushing and grinning at the same time, "You don't want to get me too riled."

Charity laughed, a happy burble that rose up from deep within her, and she squeezed up against him tightly. "I can't help it, Will; it's like a fever for you now, and I'll try to be good, but . . . well, it won't be that easy."

"Yes," he agreed, eyes bright. "But together we _will _be good, and wait for the banns, and do things right because once you're my wife I intend to make sure we have all the time in the world for each other, Charity."

She hugged him tightly again and Will's chest ached with happiness.

When they made their way back to the beach it was late afternoon, and they held hands the entire way. As Charity passed over the bag of licorice to her aunt, she made sure to use her left hand, and Nell gasped at the sight of the ring, her round face beaming with joy. "Oh 'Retty!" she managed, and rose up to hug her niece, enveloping her in a pillowy hug for a long moment before reaching out to pull Will into it as well.

"You wonderful, wonderful young ones!" she burbled, "Oh I'm so very happy for this! It's wonderful! Isn't it wonderful, Bob! Our girl and her good, good man!"

Bob said nothing, but his expression softened. He clasped Will's hand in his, pumping it hard; so hard that Will's teeth chattered.

And Nell burst into tears.

Charity fished out a handkerchief and got her aunt settled somewhat while Bob gave a sigh and put an arm around his wife, chuckling. "So I went fishing, but it looks like our 'Retty caught herself the best of the lot, eh?"

That made everyone laugh, and Nell insisted on properly admiring the ring. Unfortunately, the rain that had been holding off all day began to fall, starting lightly, but picking up intensity, and it was a mad scramble to pack the hamper and head to the train platform along with nearly everyone else at the beach. Will found them a spot under the awning, and he gave Charity his flat cap, grinning all the while.

He helped her onto the train, and Charity caught his hand before he took it from her waist, guiding it up to cup one breast, nearly laughing at his shocked and naughty expression.

"I can see you're going to be a handful in a _lot_ of ways," he whispered softly, letting his fingers linger before pulling them away.

"And don't you forget it," she agreed, laughing.

*** *** ***

It took nearly four months of planning to work out all the details; in that time Charity thought she would lose her patience or her temper for good, but between Aunt Nell and Will she managed to keep on an even keel, and when she needed to unload her vexation, she went out and gave Napoleon an extra firm currying.

Summer came on, and with it, the heat, and more visitors to the Grand, but every day was money in the bank, and Charity was glad to set aside some of it into the old butter crock Nell used as a piggy. Every day it grew a bit, until there was enough for a pink dress and payment for the parish hall as well.

She and Will had talked frankly of money; both of them knew what mattered and what didn't when it came to a penny, so it was easy to agree on a small wedding and a big reception; a dinner for family and friends. His dad and stepmother were coming, along with Davy and Lou and several other friends from the force. Charity had her own friends from the Grand coming, along with some neighbors and a cousin from Dorset as well.

Mrs. Strake insisted on handling the better part of the food for it, much to Charity's embarrassed gratitude, and Aunt Nell's delight. To have a wedding party catered by the Grand, even if informally was quite a coup, and with that taken care of, it was easier to focus on other matters.

Like counseling from Father Peregrine.

Will didn't have any easier a time of it. He tried to be patient and listen to the priest's words, but whenever the old man strayed from Scripture, he floundered, hemming and hawing on marital matters until Will had to fight a chuckle. Clearly the good Father was a little out of his depth in terms of advising on a subject he had no practical experience in.

Still, it meant time with Charity, and a chance to discuss matters on the walk home from Church, and that more than made up for anything else.

They both wanted Nell and Bob nearby; that was clear. They both wanted to save money, and certainly they both wanted children—

But not right away.

It was an interesting conversation, that one. Will was glad they were walking as they had it, since looking Charity in the eye was difficult. They were returning from their third and final session, and the day was already beginning to get warm as they made their way from St. Michael's back to the livery stable nearly a mile away.

"I mean I love children and definitely want to have ours," Charity was murmuring in a voice almost too low to hear, "but I'm not sure about . . . right away."

"I see," Will replied, because he did, and he knew he had to say _something._

Charity looked at him uncertainly. "Are you angry?"

"No, no, I think you're right. I'm just . . . there _are_ ways to . . . delay . . ." He could feel himself blushing now, hot and furious in the sunshine. Truth to tell, Will knew of a few methods to avoid having children. One would be difficult for him, the other would be difficult for Charity, and certainly neither one could be discussed on the street. Particularly not with a virgin, who had no idea of what she was asking.

Probably, Will amended to himself. It was difficult to know how much Charity knew about . . . intimacies, given the group of women she worked with. Will himself had thought he was fairly well educated in matters of the bedroom after his marriage, but life among London's police force had changed that in a hurry, and while he was no expert by any means, he'd certainly seen and heard about variations that shocked him--and few that intrigued him.

Still, it was always wise to begin with the basics and those were bound to be amazing with Charity.

She broke into his thoughts. "I suppose we'll um, figure it out when we . . ."

"Yes," Will replied gratefully. "I know Father Peregrine says to be fruitful and multiply, and that's right, but yes, there are a few ways to um, take our time."

"Good," Charity sighed, and hugged his arm a bit as she looked up at him. Will noted she was as red as he was, and the sight charmed him considerably. "The girls have, um, told me things, like. What to expect and all . . ."

He wanted to laugh, certain that half of it would be bosh and half of it true, but well aware too, that Charity wouldn't know which half to believe. "I think you'll get better from a heart to heart with your aunt," Will advised her gently. "And whatever you hear, know that I'm . . . I'm not going to hurt you, love. Not for the world."

She smiled at him; a look of quiet passion that left Will a little breathless. "You never would, I know."

He smiled back, feeling a rush of tenderness at her trust.


	6. Chapter 6

After he'd left her that afternoon, after dinner and chores and a few sweet kisses to tide him over until Tuesday, Will made his way back to the boarding house. At least, that was his intent, but his feet had other plans and took him back to St. Michael's. It was late afternoon now, and hardly anyone was about when he opened the door and slipped inside.

It was dim, and the spicy scent of incense still drifted in the still air. Will crossed himself and made his way to the rack of votives in one of the side niches and swiftly lit two candles; one for his mother and one for Jenny. Will held the match uncertainly, debating on the third candle before slowly lighting it. He put his hands behind his back, bent his head and prayed silently for a long moment, but the ache only lessened and didn't disappear.

He turned, and by luck, caught the figure of Father Harry moving along the nave. They saw each other, and something in his expression brought the priest to him, glance full of concern. "Will, it's good to see you. What's troubling you, lad?"

Will liked Father Harry, a thin aristocratic priest who, rumor had it, came from a titled family and had given it up for duty to the Lord. He wore gold wire glasses that were perpetually slipping down his long nose, and a kind smile.

"I . . . it's about the marriage," Will blurted, and lowered his voice. "I'm . . . worried."

"Ohhh," Father Harry murmured thoughtfully, and put a gentle hand on Will's shoulder. "Maybe we should have a talk then; would that be all right?"

"Yes," Will nodded, and followed the priest, who led the way back along the nave and towards one of the side doors. A few minutes later they were both ensconced in a small office with a single diamond-paned window that overlooked a tiny garden. Father Harry didn't sit behind his desk; instead he motioned to Will and they took the old chairs near the unlit fireplace.

"All right, lad, let's hear your mind—just let me get my pipe going . . ."

Will drew in a breath, and murmured. "Charity."

"Have you . . . had a fight? A disagreement?" Father Harry probed gently. "I thought you two were being counseled by Father Peregrine?"

"We are," Will nodded, "and it's all going well." He paused and went on, his words in a bit of a rush now. "I love her, Father, very much. I can't imagine life without her . . . and today it hit me that I felt that way about Jenny, and she _died,_ so Charity could too. I . . . I don't think I could go through that again. It hurt so badly when Jenny died . . ."

Will knew his voice was rough now, and he strove to steady it, but swallowed hard instead, unable to go on. Father Harry puffed on his pipe, his expression compassionate. He carefully took the pipe out of his mouth and sighed. "You're worried about Charity dying on you, then?"

"That's . . . part of it," Will nodded. "The other is feeling . . . disloyal to Jenny, like. I know she told me to marry again—made me promise it, in fact—but it feels like marrying Charity is like . . . forgetting _her."_

Father Harry nodded, resting the pipe on his knee. "So it's rather two-fold then, right. Part of you is worried about Charity, and part of you is worried about Jenny, and *neither* of those worries is about not loving them."

Will blinked, thinking about that for a moment. "Yes."

"Hmmm," Father Harry nodded. "Well, have you introduced them?"

There was a long pause. Will stared at the priest, who was smiling back at him. "Sorry, sir?"

"Will, from what I've seen, you and Charity are well-suited; she loves you and you love her. It's clear you've shared your past with her, including your marriage to Jenny, so maybe it's time you . . . introduced them."

"You mean . . . go to Weymouth?" Will asked slowly, his expression growing thoughtful. "To see Jenny's . . . grave?"

"Yes," Father Harry nodded, taking a puff of his pipe and saying nothing more. Will mulled over the suggestion, shifting in his chair as he thought it over aloud, speaking slowly.

"She'd go if I asked, I know that . . . and we could see Dad too, and Hannah and the family . . . I could show her where I grew up . . . and . . ."

" . . . And make peace, perhaps?" Father Harry murmured, puffing lightly. "It _has_ been over fifteen years since you left, Will. You were a lad then and a man now. Things change. Sometimes it does us good to face that head-on."

Will gave an uncertain nod and Father Harry spoke again, his voice soft. "You and I are in similar professions, lad. You deal with the good and bad of the body, and I deal with the good and bad of the soul. Both of us know that life is never easy, but that there are joys that make the living worthwhile. Jenny's death was a blow, but I'll wager you harbor fine memories of the years you had together, and they were worth having for the both of you, right?"

"Yes," Will replied firmly. There was no doubt of that; his youth with Jenny had been filled with a gold-tinted gentleness that even now kept his memories of her soft within him.

"There you are," Father Harry agreed. "Committing your heart is a risk; it will always be a risk. Yes, Charity may die, but then again, you may too. Part of the human condition is to be but a frail envelope for the soul, and do all such good works we can, _while_ we can."

Will released a long, deep sigh. "So it wouldn't be . . . odd, to go back and like, show Charity the grave?"

Father Harry shook his head. "In truth, I think it would be fitting and good for all three of you, lad. I have no doubt she'd be pleased with Charity."

"Yes?" Will asked, trying not to sound hopeful.

Father Harry gave a confident nod and let out a mouthful of smoke. "Yes I do. Jenny loved you enough to want you happy even after her own death, and it's clear to me that Charity is willing to do that, heart and soul. Charity deserves your love here and now, and I know it's with Jenny's blessing, lad."

*** *** ***

The train pulled into Preston a little after sunset, and Charity felt the nervousness in a tight ball at the pit of her stomach, a nervousness that had gotten stronger with every mile. This trip—chaperoned by Auntie Nell and only for a weekend—still had her frightened and unsure. It was only when she looked in Will's eyes that she felt calmer, and only _because _of Will that she'd agreed to it at all. This chance to meet his family and see his old home made sense of course; it was always smart to know a man's past. The fact that Will was willing to share it was good; the only difficult point was seeing . . . Jenny.

Charity wasn't sure how to feel about that part. It was difficult to reconcile this jealousy and gratitude, and they churned within her any time Will mentioned his former wife. On one hand, Charity understood that part of who Will was came directly from his time with Jenny, and for that Charity WAS thankful. Jenny had helped Will know what sharing a life was all about, and _how_ to love, which was a very good thing.

But counter to that was the, well, jealousy. It was clear that Will had loved Jenny very much, and even though over fifteen years had passed and he'd dealt with the loss, there was still a part of him that Charity knew would always belong to that first love. She didn't want to be jealous, but it was hard to accept sometimes, and she worried too, that Will was sometimes comparing them, and how fair was that?

Still, told her he loved her; she wore his ring and that counted for much.

"Still daylight," Auntie Nell commented approvingly, breaking into Charity's musings. "Oh what a lovely countryside! And so close to the sea!"

"Weymouth proper is southwest, a few miles along the line," Will pointed, "but _this_ is where I'm from."

"Will!" came a booming voice, and a group of people came clattering along the wooden platform, heading towards them. Charity and her aunt watched as a tall man in a brown corduroy coat and battered hat led the way, and his resemblance to his son was remarkable: same bright eyes, same dimples, same thick mustache, albeit white instead of red.

"Dad!" Will responded, and moved to give the older man a hard quick hug before pulling back and letting his upper arms be squeezed.

"Not soft yet," the man called out, grinning. "It's good to see you, boy, damned good!"

"Will!" a woman added, stepping forward to hug him. Charity recognized her as his stepmother Hannah; round, tall and sweet-faced, with great masses of curly blonde hair..

"Hannah, you're looking well!" he told her and hugged back, letting her pat his cheeks reassuringly before turning to look back at her and Aunt Nell. "Dad, Hannah, this is my love Charity, and her Aunt, Mrs. Mitchell."

"Very pleased to meet you I'm sure," Mr. Clark boomed again, reaching out to catch first Charity's hand and then Aunt Nell's. Charity noted how heavily callused the hand was, although it gripped hers with delicacy. "Heard a lot about you in his letters, and he hasn't done justice to how pretty you are!"

Charity blushed, and Aunt Nell beamed, shaking his hand back firmly. "Now I can see where Will gets his better nature from! Please call me Nell."

"I'm Harry Clark then," he announced, "and this is my dear wife, Hannah. That's Katie, and Pen; we left Bella at home to mind matters. Not that it's all that far," he added laughingly. "We're only down the road a little ways in fact."

Will already had the suitcases and the boy called Pen—a ten year old by the look of him-- was hauling Auntie Nell's valise which was a third as big as he was. Harry tousled his hair and took it from him. "Thank ye son, but I think I should take that."

"Dad!" Pen puffed, but he grinned and ran ahead as everyone else began to walk and chat.

By the time the group arrived at the shop, Charity felt much more welcome. Hannah and Nell were getting along famously, and while Will was listening to his dad, he walked slowly enough to let her keep her arm linked with his. The walk as only a few hundred yards all told, and a young woman with a baby on her hip stood in the doorway of the little eatery, smiling cheerfully as the group arrived at The White Scallop.

The little one on Belles' hip was her daughter Grace, who was a wispy blonde with big eyes. Hannah scooped her granddaughter up and promptly introduced her to Nell, who beamed again.

"Nothin' links women like babies," Harry observed quietly to Will and Charity, who both nodded, amused. Belle introduced her husband James, who was manning the kitchen, and the whole group settled at the large back table, talking merrily over cups of cider.

"Belle and James have the upstairs rooms here," Harry explained, "Our house is down in town, but we'll take the cart o' course."

"We have a proper guest room for you downstairs, Nell," Hannah said, "and Charity can have Thomas' old garret room on the other side of Pen's snuggery. Little Katie's down with us, of course, so I'm afraid, Will that you've got—"

"—The barn," he laughed. "I knew I would, but no worries. Is the old tick still up there?"

"T'is, and we aired it out, so you'll be fine. Pen will be up at four to milk the cow, but no rush to rise, eh? Breakfast is at seven or so, and after that, we'll take the day has it comes, eh?" Hannah replied.

That settled it, and after a little while Harry brought around the cart, loading everyone up along with the suitcases for the ride into Preston. Dinner was pease and pig fry, done up deliciously and served around a cramped but clean table. Charity insisted on helping, and afterwards found herself settling in between Will and Hannah, feeling a bit better with food in her, but still shy and quiet. Afterwards, all the women shooed her away from the kitchen, so she went out to the parlor to find Will holding baby Grace at his shoulder.

It was a charming sight to be sure. The baby was fascinated with Will's thick mustache and kept tugging on the ends of it. Her grip wasn't strong enough to hurt, but Will made faces and groaned softly, making the baby gurgle every time he did. Sitting by the fire, Harry was smiling and carving what looked like a fancy wooden ladle, while Pen was whittling on a crude little duck.

"Now Grace, I _need_ my cookie duster, sweetheart," Will crooned at the baby. "How else can I keep the shine on my copper's whistle, eh?" He joggled her slightly, and she laughed, little fingers once again seeking out that interesting fuzzy under his nose.

Charity came up, and Grace blinked, shifting her attention to the new face now peeking up at her. With a happy giggle, the baby reached for her nose, and Charity laughed. She took the child from Will and held her gently, settling down on the rocker. "Aren't _you_ a pretty girl now?"

Grace reached out and pulled Charity's hair, but lightly, and both of them laughed when she tried to eat a mouthful of it.

"How old is she?" Grace asked Harry, who smiled indulgently at his granddaughter.

"Just over a year, God be thanked, and healthy. She's well-doted on, believe me, aren't you, Gracie-Duck?"

At the sound of her nickname, the baby laughed again, making everyone grin.

Will felt a rush of tenderness at the sight of Charity with the baby. He drew in a breath, feeling the goodness, the rightness of that image, and he caught her eye.

She winked and went back to playing with Grace.

*** *** ***

"Here," Will whispered, his gentle hand on her elbow. "Just near the corner of the fence."

Charity looked over the small graveyard, along the rolling hill down slope from St. Peter the Apostle church and drew a shaky breath. It was a lovely if somewhat overcast view: the rumpled green of the slopes gradually descending to the white curve of beach and blue gray waters of the Channel beyond. Small stones and crosses dotted the grass, some ancient and tilting, others upright and tended, with little offerings of flowers.

She herself carried a bouquet carefully picked earlier that morning with Katie's help. The Queen Anne's lace and dark-eyed daisies made a lovely collection tied with twine; they ruffled in the fresh breeze that skittered across the grass and tugged at her bonnet.

"Here," Charity echoed, and looked at the granite headstone a few feet in front of her. The carved letters had worn a bit, but she could still make out the name on it: _Jennifer Clark 1856—1875 At Blessed Rest._

Simple and honest, Charity thought, and without hesitating, she knelt and laid the flowers at the base. Will cleared his throat, and his gaze tenderly took in the stone.

"Jenny," he murmured. "Here she rests. You would have liked her, Charity. Jenny was gentle and patient. She put up with a bad leg and weak lungs and never wanted pity for them. She put up with *me* and that tells even more of it."

"She loved you," Charity pointed out, reaching out a hand to touch the top of the stone. It felt cool and rough to her fingers. "You're an easy man to love, Will."

He laughed low and moved closer to her, slipping an arm around Charity's waist. "So you both say. I thought this would be harder, but I feel strangely . . . light. That's odd, I know, and maybe a little wrong, but there's no grief in me, my love. Whatever of Jenny is here . . . ."

". . . is _with_ us," Charity finished, nodded a little. She blinked impatiently, clearing the wetness in her eyes and smiled up at him tremulously. "I worried and fretted about this day, Will. I'm not one to believe overmuch in ghosts, but there's peacefulness here that soothes and I can't deny it. Is this . . . Jenny?"

Will gave a thoughtful glance around the graveyard, from the long road that ran alongside the fence to the rumpled green hills and down to the water before letting his gaze settle on Charity's questioning expression. "It's . . . Jenny's world, I suppose. This place of my past. Maybe Shakespeare got it wrong and the good is what lives on, not the bad. Jenny's memory is just a . . . part of that."

"The good lives on," Charity nodded, accepting this eagerly. "Tell me about the good."

Slowly they moved to sit off to the side of the stone, settling on the grass, holding hands and Will spoke slowly. He told of meeting Jenny through her brother, of a gentle courtship. Of Jenny herself, with her limp and dimpled smile and the way she brushed her hair back behind her ears. Will talked about the night he'd proposed, and got horribly drunk to celebrate.

"It's a good thing I could navigate in the dark," Will admitted. "I'd have ended up with a broken neck or worse if I'd tripped over the pig again."

Charity listened to all of the stories, laughing and growing quiet when they ended with Jenny's last day. Both of them cried quietly, and Will pulled her into his lap, arms around her as his tears dampened her shoulder.

After a while they rose, feeling self-conscious but clearly better for the time together. Charity smoothed her skirts and gently took Will's hand, guiding it to the stone, both of them touching the top of it lightly as the sun came out. Neither said anything about this sign; their gazes held and they nodded.

When they left the little graveyard, Charity looked back once, and smilingly whispered her thanks.


	7. Chapter 7

The rest of the visit went very well, and Charity found herself feeling much welcomed by Will's family and enjoying them in turn. It helped that Hannah and Nell were fast becoming friends, and that the children--Grace, Katie and Pen—were full of questions and observations ranging from how many freckles Charity had, to how deep the ocean, and whether they could stay up late for the wedding.

Charity tried to answer what she could, and found to her amusement that it was fun to spend time with the little ones. She'd never had much of a chance to do that—occasionally she watched a few at the hotel, and there were babies at church of course—but the revelation that children were easy to talk to, and fun to make laugh was delightful.

They all went to Sunday service together, and socialized with the congregation afterwards. Charity was shy, but Will made up for it, introducing her around and _herding_ her, she realized with an inward giggle.

Before they left, Harry presented them with a cunning set of carved kitchen bowls and saucers, complete with mixing spoons and cutting board, all carefully carved of wood that had drifted up on the beach. Now the gifts were sanded and oiled, carefully wrapped for the trip back and every one was hugging and kissing goodbye, promising to meet up again in three weeks for the wedding. Charity, Will and Nell waved from the compartment window until the train pulled out and it was impossible to see the station platform anymore.

*** *** ***

He blushed, but held the invitations out doggedly, determined to make sure that both of them were delivered on time. There'd be hell to pay if they weren't, although in this case hell would probably consist of Charity growling a bit and kissing him in frustration, which was sort of fun in itself, but Will didn't want to risk it any other outcomes.

She was tense enough at the moment.

"What's this?" Watson asked curiously, but Holmes glanced at the envelopes and managed a brief smirk.

"Really Watson, I would think with your own nuptials not so far distant you might recognize the objects that Clarky is presenting us with. Fine grade cardstock in cream over bleached white; extremely careful penmanship which bespeaks a great deal of concentration, yet no address because these are to be hand-delivered, ergo they are---"

"—wedding invitations," Watson broke in, examining his cheerfully. "How delightful. Congratulations, Clark!"

"—wedding invitations," Holmes finished, lightly miffed at Watson's thunder theft. "It seems our beloved constable is _also _submitting himself to the iron shackles of matrimony."

"Beggin' your pardon sir, but it's more like . . . a yoke," Will corrected politely, with the faintest hint of a grin under his mustache.

"Hmmm," Holmes murmured, talking the proffered invitation. "So when the two of you are in agreement on direction, you present a solid force, and when you do not . . ."

"Then the stronger beast wins," Will confirmed. "Generally."

Watson gave him a clap on the shoulder. "True words, and here's hoping it's _you_ most of the time! Holmes and I will be delighted to attend, won't we, Holmes?"

"Certainly," Holmes agreed, "I'm sure you and Miss Mitchell will have a marvelous fete and Watson here needs a chance to air his social graces."

"Good then," Will nodded, "We'd be honored to have you both." He gave a little nod and headed out, determined to deliver the last invitation before heading home.

Davy and Louis had already gotten theirs, but Will was nervous about inviting Lestrade. He respected his superior, and got along with him well on the job, but outside of the Yard Lestrade was reclusive, and difficult to reach. Will knew the Inspector was married to a high-born lady and that it had been one of those unspoken near scandals that wasn't spoken of anywhere near the man's hearing.

Nevertheless, Will felt compelled by loyalty and esteem to extend the invitation. Lestrade had helped him up through the ranks, had given him support and encouragement for several years now, and Will appreciated that faith.

He found Lestrade at his desk, thumbing through the daily reports which lay in neat piles everywhere. Will waited for his boss to look up, but Lestrade didn't and merely grunted. "Yeah?"

"For you, sir." Will managed, handing over the envelope.

Lestrade took it, paused, then finally glanced up at Will, his expression blank. "Is this wha' I think it is?"

"That . . . depends," Will swallowed. "Sir."

"Well I think it's an invite to yer wedding," Lestrade murmured quietly, looking at it.

"Yes sir. Me and Charity; that is, my intended, well, we both would like you to be there. Sir."

Lestrade looked at him for a moment, and Will suddenly realized that the man's expression was . . . embarrassed. "You sure?"

"Of course I'm sure, sir," Will nodded. "You . . . you helped make me what I am today, and I'm very grateful for that. And Charity, well—she reckons she'd be dead without you and Mr. Holmes."

"Our job," Lestrade gruffly murmured, but Will could see a gleam of shy pride in his eyes. "Yes, well, I thank you for the nod, Clark, and I'll check with the wife, see about coming then."

"Thank you sir," Will nodded. As he moved to go, Lestrade cleared his throat.

Curious, Will turned, and his superior managed a small but genuine smile. "Congratulations . . . Will. Your intended is getting a damn fine man."

"Sir," Will dimpled for a moment, and headed out, his step lighter.

*** *** ***

Charity was brushing out her hair and lost in a thousand different thoughts when she heard the knock at her bedroom door and the faint creak of floorboards that let her know it was Auntie Nell outside.

"Come in," Charity invited quietly, "it's open."

Her aunt came in, took one look at Charity and without a word took the brush from her, smiling. Charity shifted on the stool and closed her eyes, waiting for the first stroke through her hair, relaxing under the familiar ritual. They hadn't done this in ages, but it felt welcome and right, now.

"It's getting long," Aunt Nell observed, "very like your mother's hair, you have."

Charity smiled. Her aunt kept brushing, and after a while Charity noticed her silence. Usually Nell hummed or at least spoke, but tonight she was uncharacteristically quiet.

"Are you all right, Auntie?"

"Oh," her aunt murmured, "Yes. I just was thinking . . ."

"Thinking," Charity prompted gently.

"Yes . . . that there are things that you . . . ought to know. About being married," Nell finished quickly. "If your mother was here, she'd be the one to tell you."

"But she's not here," Charity couldn't help impishly pointing out. She suspected this little talk was coming, and felt both amused and embarrassed by it. And grateful, truth be known.

"No, she's not, else she'd tell you not to be so _cheeky,"_ Nell murmured back, but with no sting in her words. "Charity, this is important, dear. There are matters between men and women that . . . well, that you need to know before you're married. The way . . . oh dear, yes, the way babies are made."

"Ahh," Charity offered, and stopped. She was glad she wasn't looking _at_ Auntie Nell; it would have been difficult to keep a straight face, and she knew this was a tricky subject.

"The truth is, 'Retty, that men and women are made differently in their bodies," Auntie Nell began. "I know you know _that_ much, since you've seen animals and know that the males have . . . members."

"Like Napoleon," Charity murmured, biting her lips to keep from laughing. Napoleon was quite definitely male, and proud of it; a fact impossible to miss at times when he sensed a ripe mare around.

"Not _all_ of them are the size of Napoleon," Aunt Nell murmured with archness in her tone. "Though they'd like to think so. But yes. Men have pizzles and are proud of them. Like animals, they pass their water through them, but at other times, just like dogs and hogs and horses, they use them to plant seed in the females of their types, dear."

"Oh," Charity murmured, then asked, "does it hurt?"

She heard her aunt sigh softly. "That depends, dear. I'm sure you know that loving someone means having feelings for them. Good ones, but not always . . . nice ones. That's nature's way of easing matters along. Kissing is just the start, but from there, it's a matter of doing as the animals do."

"But they . . ." Charity stammered, blushing and remembering some of the more scandalous caresses she'd witnessed in her time. Stallions steadily nuzzling and licking around the tails of mares; dogs mounting bitches with happy yelps all around . . . She risked a glance at her aunt, the heat rising off her face.

Auntie Nell gave a slow nod, and her smile was steady. "Yes, 'Retty. It's like that. The first times are a bit unsteady because you both want each other and have to find for yourselves how you fit and what feels best."

"Ohhh," was all Charity could manage, suddenly realizing in a rush that not only was this what her aunt and uncle did, but also that she and Will would be doing . . . this . . . as well.

"But after that," her aunt continued gently. "When you've laughed and cried and worked out what you like, it gets much better. In time, you look forward to it, and what pleasure it brings for the both of you."

"The girls say--" Charity began, and hesitated. Her aunt gave a wordless little nod, and she went on. "That it can hurt, but sometimes it's wonderful fun, and that I should lie still and let Will do what he wants if I want to make him happy."

"The girls," Aunt Nell snorted, "are full of dandersniff and nonsense. Do you really think Will would be happy that way? He will be your husband, and yours, body and soul. Take time to learn his body, 'Retty, as he learns yours, and know that nearly everything that passes between you in the comfort of your bed is . . . well, just that. Yours and nobody else's affair."

"But what if . . . I do something wrong?" Charity fretted. "What if--"

Auntie Nell laughed softly. "Girl, you can't do it wrong. I've seen you and Will around each other, and with his experience, I think—though you'll never hear me say this again, child—that you are going to have a lovely time making babies."

"Auntie!" Charity spluttered, and then laughed herself.

"That's the spirit. Just know these three things. First, a man's ballocks are as delicate as china, so treat them well. Secondly, if you aren't in the mood to love, tell him so, and why. Good men can be understanding about that. And last of all, 'Retty dear, while coupling is how to make babies . . . it doesn't always happen."

Both women were quiet for a moment, and Nell handed the hairbrush back to her niece. Charity looked up at her. "You and Bob—"

"We've tried for years. We still . . . but now it's just for love, and because we were blessed to have _you_ in our lives, it's all right, girl."

Charity sniffled, and her aunt took her in her arms, hugging her tight.

*** *** ***

The wedding Mass of Charity Elizabeth Mitchell to William Andrew Clark took place at ten o'clock on August the fifteenth, eighteen ninety-two at St. Michael's Church. It was a warm day, but breezy, and despite the initial attempt to keep the ceremony small, the church was filled. Many of the coppers on the groom's side were in full, clean uniform, looking fraternally supportive, while on the bride's side, the merry band of chambermaids in their Sunday best eyed them appreciatively.

Will was nervous, but the quiet joy within him steadied his nerves, as did the sight of Charity coming up the nave on Bob's arm, flushed but smiling under her lace veil and pale pink gown. Father Harry conducted the service. His calm demeanor and clear affection for the couple before him put a luster on the simple ceremony that made it all the sweeter for those attending in the dim coolness of the stone church.

Auntie Nell and Hannah, sitting on opposite sides of the nave, both cried throughout the ceremony, their mutual sniffles rising to a crescendo when after the homily, Father Harry solemnly led Will and Charity through the vows. Will gently slipped the gold band onto Charity's finger, his voice husky through his 'I do."

Charity, who had been trembling a bit up to that point, took strength from his touch, and when she slipped Will's ring onto his finger, her voice was soft but firm as she promised to love, honor and obey him.

Will lifted her veil and they kissed, both only dimly hearing the applause, lost in the pleasure and _relief_ flooding through them. When they broke off, Will took her left hand and kissed the ring on it, bringing a fresh smattering of clapping and murmured cheers. Charity blinked away her own tears and smiled out at the assembled congregation as Father Harry introduced them as 'the _very_ dear Constable and Mrs. Clark!"

Communion followed, with Will and Charity assisting Father Harry, and then it was a matter of joining hands (sweaty, yes, but a sweet, familiar grip!) and dashing under a scattershot of rice for the gaily bedecked cab with Napoleon under the reins. The big horse looked only slightly annoyed at the fancy plaid ribbons in his mane, and flicked an ear at the stray rice bounding off his flanks. Charity let Will help her in, and then laughed as he made the cab bounce tumbling in after her. There were cheers, but they faded as Ned drove them off for a quick promenade from St. Michaels and around the park while the guests took their time to walk to the parish hall.

In the dim and crowded cab, Will looked at her and laughed; a good, happy sound, as much of relief as of joy and Charity joined him, taking his hands in hers. "_You _look a pretty sight, Mis-sus Clark," he told her, his satisfaction rolling in his rumbly tone.

"I'll thank you not to flirt with me; I'm a married woman, don't you know?"

"What a damned lucky fool he must be," Will commented, eyes twinkling. "Think he'd mind if I kissed the bride?"

"I think that would be grand," Charity smirked, and leaned forward to let him, giggling as the bounces over the cobblestones turned it into a clumsy affair.

"We'll have time later for better ones," Will grinned at her, and sighed, reaching for his collar button and popping it open. "Doing all right, then love?"

"Good," Charity assured him, and fanned herself with her bouquet. "I hope the hall's cooler."

"Me too," Will admitted. "And I wouldn't say no to a drop of something to drink." When she shot him an arch look, he grinned, "Nothin' strong, just cool."

Charity nodded. The cab circled the park then came back, bringing them to the door of the parish hall fifteen minutes later. Ned grinned and helped Charity down. She and Will were whisked off to the back rooms to sign the certificate and change into cooler clothes. Already the lovely scent of roast beef was in the air along with the sound of happy voices.

A few minutes later, in a suit, Will signed his name carefully, and watched with a pang of joyous pride and Charity added hers to the document, then Father Harry.

"It's an honor and a joy to have wed you," he murmured to them, cheerfully. "And now, I believe there's a pint or two with my name on it out in the hall—"

Then came the lovely confusion and charm that seems to flow through all celebrations, and Will found himself swept along by Lou and Davy, shaking hands with nearly everyone, catching sight of and losing track again of Charity as she was moved from circle to circle of women in the hall, all of whom were hugging her and laughing.

So much about that afternoon seemed touched with the buoyant lightness of a perfect August summer day, and the sweet combination of cheerful conversation, high spirits and food. Will was amazed at the wedding cake, which was a lusciously decadent towered affair with more frosty swirls than a Swiss mountain. He was almost afraid to cut into it, and saw that Charity looked rather the same way, but Mrs. Strake gave them an imperious nod and they held the knife together, slicing into a rum-scented masterpiece studded with sultanas, walnuts and bits of candied pineapple.

Music started up; a few of Bob's friends were playing fiddles and concertinas in one corner of the parish hall and the bouncy tunes echoed through the room under the conversations and cheerful noise. Some of the younger children were running around, dodging from table to table, and Charity noted that Mr. Holmes was at the back of the room, watching everyone in it with keen, quiet interest. She went over to him and joined him against the wall, leaning quietly against the coolness of the plaster.

"Your talent will languish," he murmured, taking out his pipe.

"Beg pardon?" Charity asked.

"Drawing. I do hope you will grant yourself an hour or two each day to practice and perfect your talent, Mrs. Clark. Your skill is to be envied."

"Thank you. I might keep it up," Charity murmured. "Are you . . . enjoying yourself, Mr. Holmes?"

He glanced up from tamping tobacco in the bowl, his expression mild. "In my own fashion, yes, although I will be going soon. Thank you so much for . . . making William happy."

The sentiment was sincere, even if the phrasing was awkward, and Charity tipped her head, looking at Holmes for more of an explanation. Holmes was silent a moment, and then rushed on in a low voice. "Clarky is a rare individual in the ranks of the police; a sensible man with strong morals and compassion that remains untainted by the bitterness of the job. Having given so much in the line of duty, he truly deserves happiness, and it's clear that he has found it with you, Mrs. Clark."

Charity blinked at this unexpected compliment, and laid a hand on Holmes' sleeve. "Thank you. Will thinks the world of you and Doctor Watson. The pair of you will always have a place at our table, Mr. Holmes."

"Thank you," he replied simply, and lit his pipe. Charity patted his arm again, and moved off, feeling a prickle of tears in her eyes that had nothing to do with the fragrant smoke.


	8. Chapter 8

The hotel wasn't the biggest or the best in Brighton; both Will and Charity had preferred to put their money into their little end terrace house on Brook Row. Nevertheless, the Sand House was clean and cozy, and their room was on the second floor, overlooking the beach. The ancient bellhop who showed them up began wheezing, and without a word, Will took the suitcases from him halfway up the stairs.

"Thankee, sir; I do apologize—my breath's been short since my days in the mines," the old man sorrowfully. "Usually Reese does the upper floors and I take the lower."

"Not a worry," Will assured him with a smile. "What time is breakfast?"

"Cook's up at six and table's open from seven on, sir. Lunch is set at twelve thirty to two, tea at four thirty and dinner is around six. I'm Dan, and I'd be happy to serve you in any way you need."

"I'll keep you in mind," Will nodded as Dan unlocked the door and ushered them in. Charity gave a happy sigh, stepping into the room and looking around.

It was a garret room, with the low roof above slanting down to several diamond-paneled windows. The wood and plaster of the walls were very Tudor, and gave a sense of coziness along with the braided rugs and watercolors of the sea that hung on a few of the walls.

"The bath is down the hall, ladies and gents marked on the doors, and you have your own water closet there, just off to the left," Dan pointed out the small door. "Will that be all sir, madam?" he asked gently, hovering.

"Yes," Will told him firmly, and fished out a few shillings, tipping the bellboy. "Thank you very much, Dan."

"Thank _you _sir," Dan replied courteously, nodding and stepping out.

For a moment, neither Charity nor Will spoke as they stood self-consciously in the low light of the gas jets. Then Charity laughed, and moved to take her hat off. "This is silly."

"Silly?" Will reached for one of the suitcases and cast about for a spot to rest it. The dresser was low and wide, so he set the case on it and unbuckled the straps. "It's not silly. It's just . . . the newness of it all. That and the quiet."

Charity nodded; the wedding reception had been one long happy buzz, and compared to it, the silence of the room felt restful to the ear. She glanced out the window, noting the low sunset light spilling across the water with a glittery streak. She moved to open then, and the scent of the salty air was delicious.

"It's half-after six," Will murmured, coming over to her. "Are you hungry?"

"After everything this afternoon, I don't think I could handle another bite for *days.*" she murmured, feeling a shiver at his nearness behind her.

"I agree," Will sighed with a chuckle. "Mrs. Strake sets a fine table." He put his arms around Charity and joined her in looking out the window. "So what would you like, love? A walk on the pier?"

"Tomorrow," Charity whispered, and turned in his arms, bringing her mouth up to his. "Time enough for that tomorrow. Right now . . . I think I'd like . . . to be made Mrs. Clark for true."

Will drew in a shaky sigh, and bent his head to kiss her.

It was easy after that.

Charity loved the closeness of him, of how easy it was to undo the buttons of his vest, and after that, Will's shirt. In the low light he was pale of course, but the familiar sight of his ginger-furred chest made her smile.

Will caught her hands after his shirt was undone, and stopped her from going any further with a gentle shake of his head. "T'is my turn," came his murmur. Gently, he helped her pull the pins from her hair and when it tumbled down he ran his fingers through her fine black tresses, marveling at them.

"I've wondered what it would look like," Will confessed. "It's like a waterfall of night."

His unexpected poetic comment made Charity laugh. "It's not!"

"Oh it is," Will assured her and nuzzled it as he pulled her close. "And very pretty."

Charity kissed him again, moving her lips from his and then along his jaw line, trailing over the faint bristles of his skin. She savored the texture, the scent and taste of Will, feeling gratified when he groaned a little. His hands moved to her back, undoing the buttons of her dress with alacrity.

She pulled back to impatiently pull the dress down, feeling both self-conscious and amused as her bare arms and shoulders came into view, but Will's delighted smirk made Charity blink.

He ran his palms up along her arms to her shoulders, his warm touch both soothing and arousing. "How does it work that _I'm _the ginger one, and _you_ have all the freckles?"

"The angels love me more," Charity sassed back, and Will bent to kiss her at the join of neck and shoulder, his mustache tickling lightly.

"Love," he breathed gently in her ear when he moved his kisses up, "When was your last time?"

A little dazed, Charity turned her head to look at him. "W-what?"

"Your last . . ." Will trailed off, a little uncomfortably. Charity blinked and then understanding dawned on her as she blushed.

"Oh! Three days past," she assured him, a tremble in her voice. "I'm . . . clean."

Will's arms tightened around her, and for the first time Charity felt his warm chest against her corset. She kissed his shoulder as he spoke softly. "Then we're safe, and I can love you without too much worry of a child just yet."

"Good," Charity murmured, and wrapped her arms around him.

It took a while to strip off the rest of their clothes; the corset was easy but the bustle straps were stiff and Charity giggled when Will rolled his eyes.

"Fashion," he grumbled, working the buckles loose with a final tug.

"Fashion," she agreed, and let the thing fall to the floor with a soft 'thump' of fabric and strap. Will gave a relieved sigh and picked her up; Charity giggled, feeling scandalously light in her undershirt and pantaloons.

"Bed," Will told her firmly and carried her over to it, setting her down on the big blue duvet. Charity sat up, reaching for his belt buckle. He looked down and hesitated; she smiled up at him.

"You _are _allowed to show it to me," she assured him. That made Will snort, and his dimples deepened.

"So I hear," he replied. "Saucy woman." Carefully he sat on the edge of the bed and undid his bootlaces while Charity kissed Will's neck and shoulders, making it more difficult to concentrate. When he slid his trousers off and rolled onto the mattress, she slid into his arms, moaning.

Will shifted to his side and leaned over Charity, kissing her with care. She kissed him back, a little frantically, but he let one big hand slide along her stomach between her lacy undershirt and the drawstring to her pantaloons and gradually Charity relaxed.

"Slow," Will murmured. "No rush, love. We've got time enough."

That made her snort a little, and she nipped at his nose when he leaned over her again. "Will, you should know by now that I'm not patient."

"Really?" he replied, and let his palm slide up, under the thin cotton to cup one big round breast."Fancy that."

Charity gave a happy shudder, and her pupils were wide as she drew in a breath. "Will--" came her little moan, "Please--"

With gentleness, he moved his hand out again and undid the buttons of her undershirt, then lightly tugged it open, revealing the pale luscious globes of her chest. It took a moment for him to fight the hard rush of arousal that spiked through him and further stiffened his shaft, but he smiled and let his fingers gently caress each breast. "God," came his happy sigh, "I've wanted to see these for—"

"—me too," Charity whispered, blushing. That made him chuckle, and Will flicked a thumb over the dark pink nipple, toying lightly with the stiffness as his wife whimpered.

He nuzzled her neck, drinking in the sweet joy of her arousal, feeling proud and eager to take her, but wise enough not to rush matters. Will understood that Charity's first time had to be good; that love and lust had to be equal in the moment. Bending further, he lightly nibbled one nipple and then the other. Charity gave a low cry of delight, and her arms scrabbled to pull him closer.

"Willll . . ." came her voice, a husky and hungry sound. "I want you, I do!"

He let his mustache brush over her breasts, and kissed his way up to her mouth, moving from pale skin back into freckled skin, and chuckled. "And I you, love; and I you. Come see me . . ."

Charity blinked, and shifted as Will took one of her hands and brought it down to his stomach. She looked, and timidly began to touch, stroking the trail of sandy fur that lead further down into his drawers, where a thick ridge was pressing hard against the plain cotton.

She bit her lips. "That's . . . it, then, isn't it?"

Will snorted. "Yes. And it doesn't bite," he assured her gently. "Ready to see it?"

Her eager grin was enough, and with Charity's help, Will managed to undo the drawstring and shift his drawers down. Her gasp, and warm caressing hand nearly undid him, but Will gritted his teeth and stayed still as she explored his erection.

"It's so hot," Charity marveled, curling her hand around the turgid shaft. "The skin's soft, but under that, it's like bone!"

"All the better to join with you," Will murmured distantly as he enjoyed her soft stroking. "Careful though. I don't want to spill just yet." She pulled her hand away as if scalded, and he laughed, kissing her temple. "T'won't break, dear, but if you keep playing with it like that, I'll spend and then we'd have to wait a while."

"It's big," Charity murmured with a hint of wariness in her voice as she reluctantly let go. "I didn't know they got so . . . big."

Flattered, Will gave a little hum, and slid a hand down her stomach towards her pantaloons. "Every man has his size, I suppose. And now, Charity my love, turnabout is fair play. May I?"

She made a soft sound of protest, and then reached to undo the string herself, laughing in embarrassment. "Sorry . . . I'm just nervous I suppose . . ."

Will moved to kiss her again, and as they did, he felt her relax a bit. Without speaking, he lightly slid his hand into her pantaloons, and when his fingers touched the curly fluff at the join of her legs he groaned. Charity wriggled her hips, hands moving to push the pantaloons down.

She didn't speak, but brought her hands to cup over his, pressing his touch down onto the soft fur. They kissed again, and Charity trembled, her body tensing with each soft caress of his hand. Will kept his touch light, even though every fiber in his body was urging him to roll on top of Charity and simply take her.

But he hadn't counted on her impatience, and with a little growl, she kicked off her pantaloons and gasped at him. "Will, please, just—now, please!"

He nearly laughed, but the sweet daze of lust in her eyes was more than enough to make him grunt, and he shifted, pinning her under him, and reaching down to guide himself. Charity grabbed his shoulders, her breathing noisy and her eyes glittering. "Oh Will---!"

"S-slow," he promised, and rocked forward, breeching her as gently as he could. Will tensed, fighting instinct and desire as he arched into her body. Charity flinched, but after a second, she moaned, and let one plump leg wrap around his thigh.

"More," she gasped, her grip tightening. "S'good!"

Will pushed further, and the sudden slickness, the lovely hot _squeeze _of her made him growl hard. He thrust again, caught up in the maddening drive now, and the pleasure throbbed through him from temples to toes. Charity gave a slow cry, and he felt her rock against him, mouth along his neck, fingers clutching hard.

They joined, making a sweet hard staccato of creaks on the bed, and Charity tensed as sweet heat flared from between her legs all the way up her stomach with every stroke. This was madness; a deep delicious madness that left her breathless and achy, although the ache was growing stronger and harder and faster . . . the feel of Will _within_ her was wonderful, and now she felt as if she was dying it was too much, so much . . .

She tensed as the flare of joy seared everything else away.

Will let his body ride hers, lost in the sweet blaze of pleasure that poured through him. Charity felt like slick, hot heaven, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Will knew he would *never* get enough of her; that she truly was his wife now in the ultimate sense of the word. Then Charity gave a hard shudder, clenching around him, and Will joined her, thrusting raggedly as her damp arms clung to him and he gushed within her, thick and hot.

It took a lot not to simply collapse on her, and he grinned so hard his face hurt. Under him, Charity looked dazed, her long black hair tousled on the pillow, her cheeks red under the freckles. She blinked at him, eyes wet with tears.

"Are you hurt, love?" he asked, a flare of worry in his voice. Will damned himself—he'd been too rough; too hard and she a virgin---

"Oh I love you, Will Clark," Charity blubbered softly, sniffing and grinning. "I do so!"

Relief flooded through him, and he bent to kiss her, keeping most of his weight on his arms and knees. "Love you too, Charity my bride. That was . . . quick," Will admitted ruefully. "It's not usually quite so—"

"--We were ready," she corrected him gently. "At least, _I_ was. Ohhhhhhh this is a sweet thing," Charity added, letting her hands stroke down Will's back and flanks, "this loving. I _like_ this."

"With you, it's nothing short of amazing," Will murmured, nuzzling along the side of her damp face, "but we need some time to rest . . ."

"Mmmm," she agreed, and helped him shift out and away from her. Looking down, Charity blushed, touching the pinkish slickness along her thighs. "The sheets--!"

"Hold on--" Rising up, unself-conscious in his nudity, Will moved to the washbasin and dipped a corner of the facecloth in the water, then came back and lovingly washed his wife's thighs, dabbing at the cleft between them as well. Shyly, Charity let him, her eyes wide.

"If we were kings and queens," Will told her conversationally, "They'd hang this washcloth out to show we'd properly sealed our marriage."

"That's . . ." Charity wrinkled her nose, "Disgusting! Oy! Who's business is it anyway, and that's dirty laundry of the worst kind!"

Will laughed, and bent to kiss her knee. "Lucky then we're not royalty, eh? Still, you're a proper woman now, Charity, and I'm the luckiest man in the world."

"Oh _you--"_ Charity chuckled, and held her arms out to him. "Come here, Will!"

After cleaning himself as well, he crawled back into the bed with her and they settled in together; still slightly self-conscious in their nudity, but content. Will lay back, feeling the lovely weight of Charity's head on his furry chest, and slowly dropped off to sleep, feeling a rare and lovely joy throughout his entire body.

*** *** ***

Charity woke up just after dawn, needing the water closet so she untangled herself from Will and scurried to the little necessary. When she was done, she stopped at the washbasin and poured a little fresh water, cleaning her face a bit as she looked in the mirror. The dim light showed Charity that her hair would need a lot of time with a brush, but other than that, things looked normal.

She smiled at herself. "You are a woman now," she whispered, and giggled.

Carefully Charity made her way back to the bed, and looked at Will, who was sprawled out, snoring lightly. His hair was no better than hers, sticking out every which way, but she loved how relaxed he was, and how . . . muscular. She cocked her head and kept looking at him, drinking in sight of his long, strong arms and broad shoulders, his forearms with their light golden hair, his big, wide hands.

She slid into bed and breathed in his scent, comforted and aroused by the tang of maleness he exuded; that little sweaty musk that Charity knew now would always mean 'Will' to her from now on. Sleepily he shifted, rolling to curl around her, one arm possessively sliding around her waist. "Mornin' missus."

"Mornin' mister," she whispered back. "Your prick is up."

"Language," he snorted, "Although I suppose it's all right. And yes, t'is. It's an early riser."

"Is it?" Charity giggled playfully. "So am I."

"Well now, we should do something about that," came his soft reply. He hadn't opened his eyes yet, but he was smiling, and Charity ran a finger along the deep dimples bracketing Will's smirk.

"May I . . . see it?"

His eyes opened, and the warm trust in them made her blush. "Be kind," Will murmured, and slowly pulled the duvet back.

Charity kissed him, and after lingering a bit, she lightly scooted herself down the bed, focusing her attention down the length of his torso to his hips. She propped herself on one elbow and reached out her free hand to curl around his shaft, her touch gentle, and her expression intrigued. "Oooh, it's getting bigger!"

"It does that," Will teased, his face red but his words merry. "Especially when you touch it."

"And these are your ballocks," Charity murmured, letting her fingers reluctantly let go of his erection to lightly stroke the furry ginger-curled mass under it. Will tensed and slipped a hand down to guide hers.

"Yes. Not meant for rough handling, either. You ever want to drop a man in his tracks, aim a good knee right here, and I promise you he'll be one sorry fellow, love."

"Mmmm," Charity tried not to laugh. "I'll remember that." She pulled away from Will's fingers and returned to caressing the thickening shaft, toying with it lightly. "Look at it rise—you'd think it was ready to crow!"

"That's why they call it a cock," Will snorted, making her giggle in delighted embarrassment.

"That's terrible!" she laughed, "honestly, Will!"

"It's an old joke," he acknowledged, his smile warm and intimate. "I'd bet Adam told it to Eve."

This set Charity off again, and she giggled helplessly at the thought. Will took advantage of her mirth and shifted his touch down to her breast. He tried to shift her back up next to him, but she resisted, and in a move of sudden daring, leaned over to experimentally lick his shaft.

He gave a groan of surprise. "Char--!"

Charity pressed a kiss to it, feeling gratified that what she'd heard was true: men definitely liked their members kissed and licked and sucked. She opened her mouth and drew in the plum-colored head of his shaft, tasting it lightly. Musk of course, and salt along the delicate skin.

"Christ!" she heard Will gasp, and the pleasure in his voice gave her confidence. Charity bent her head and let his shaft slide into her mouth, feeling a sense of excitement at such a naughty thing. Will groaned once more, the sound deep and utterly masculine; a sound she wanted to hear again.

Lightly she bobbed her head for a few minutes, letting her mouth glide up and down along his ever-thickening shaft, and the sense of power blended with a sudden rise in her own desire. The taste of Will made her ache again the way she had the night before, made her long for him to take her once more and drive the breath from her.

Dimly she felt Will reach down and lightly push her away; confused she looked up and saw the hot glitter in his eyes. "'S nice, but I don't want to end this way. I want to be _in _you, Charity," Will rasped. "Please, love—!"

She gave a happy groan and rolled onto her back, reaching for him, helping Will shift between her thighs. He kissed her with strength, stretching himself out on her body, and Charity cried out in pleasure as he thickly drove into her, hot and hard.

Will kissed her again, tasting himself in her mouth, tasting her flavors as well, and the unbelievable softness of her body under his made him ache. Those cushioning breasts, that wicked little tongue, and cradling him that tight, wet cleft squeezing him were enough to drive Will deeper. Charity—his harbor, his love, his beloved wife . . . the maddening pleasure built with each stroke into her, and he nuzzled her cheek, feeling wetness there, not knowing if the tears were hers or his.

Then she cried out, shuddering, her nipples so hard that they pressed into his chest as her delight crested. Seeing it, _feeling _her clench his shaft was too much. Searing joy flared through him, and Will arched into Charity, feeling the thick hot pulses of his spending gush deep within her.

It took a long while to come back from that.

Finally, Charity drew in a breath and gave a low, happy sigh. "That's good, that is. I didn't . . . know it could be like that."

"That's what makes it love," Will told her softly as he brushed her hair back from her forehead and kissed her nose. "A bit sticky and noisy, but love just the same."

"If this is how babies get made, we're in for a brood, Will," she pointed out teasingly. He gave her a grin as he gently rolled off of her, making the mattress creak a bit.

"Yes, well we'll come to that too. I'm not too worried about it, but I do think we ought to make an appearance so that people don't wonder about us. It's nearly ten now, I'm sure."

"Ten! I haven't been abed mid-morning since . . ." Charity thought back, trying to find a memory and failing. Will laughed.

"Up we get then. We can walk the pier and see what's in town if you like. I'll need to shave though," he ran a hand over his chin, scratching the faint gold bristles along it.

"And I need a bath," Charity admitted reluctantly. "I'm a bit . . . sore."

Will slipped an arm around her, pulling her over to him and kissing her temple. "I'm sorry, love. I should have been more gentle."

"Pfff," she snorted back, and kissed him before adding, "We'll take it slower later."

*** *** ***

It was a lovely Saturday. The heat brought the crowds to the beach, but Will and Charity watched them thin out as evening came on. They walked the pier, and Will rented them fishing poles for the afternoon. Neither of them had Bob's luck though, and they gave it up in time to shop a while. Charity bought a souvenir plaque with a watercolor painting of the beach and the scrolled lettering of 'Brighton' on the bottom.

They had dinner at the hotel and enjoyed flounder with boiled potatoes, all the while watching the other diners and gently chatting. Afterwards, they walked to the bandstand and waltzed among many couples there under the twinkling gaslights as the music rolled out in the warm lovely twilight.

And that night they made love again, playfully. Charity learned about the tantalizing pleasure of a soft mustache and warm tongue between her legs. She shivered and cried out joyfully several times, and Will happily received her gratitude when Charity rose on her hands and knees, looking back over her shoulder at him with saucy lust.

On Sunday, after a leisurely breakfast on the veranda of the hotel, Will and Charity packed, then caught the train back into London. Clattering, the cab took them from the station to Brook Row, just past the little park where they'd taken their first walk together nearly half a year earlier.

Will unloaded the suitcases .Charity had already trotted up the stairs and unlocked the front door of the little end terrace house. She was about to slip inside, but Will moved quickly to scoop her up. "Now Charity, we've got to do things traditional-like."

She laughed, and clutched her hat, trying to keep it from falling off as Will carried her over and into the little foyer. The house was quiet, save for the ticking of a clock in the living room and the distant sound of traffic along the other streets behind the other houses.

"Our home," Will sighed, still holding her.

Charity eyed the staircase. "Maybe you'd better set me down."

Will pretended to consider it. "No, I don't think so," he told Charity firmly. "It's only the afternoon, and I think we need to re-sanctify our marriage. Up we go, love—"

He carried her up the narrow stairs easily despite Charity's laughing protests, and only set her down once they'd reached the bedroom up above. Charity turned and reached for him, thinking that of all the things she'd ever hoped for when she'd first seen Will Clark, this was by far the most wonderful.

"I love you," she told him, her voice trembling.

"And I love you," Will told her lifting her chin and gently letting his mouth drift to hers. "Blessed, aren't we?"

And they were.

end


End file.
